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Short Story Society
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My Father's Shoes by Terri Rilea Approximately
501 words "My
friend Terri Rilea, recently wrote a wonderful tribute to her father and
family. In the spirit of Thanksgiving, I asked her if I could share it
with all of you. It is such a touching piece of writing that in some way
relates to all of us. It is amazing how certain smells, songs and
sometimes even shoes can bring back the best memories…reminding us to be
truly thankful. I hope you enjoy." Mark
and I were visiting Dad when, at different times, my brothers Tim and Dave
would visit. The light from the window filtered in the room and for the
first time in my life, I saw my Dad by way of my brothers. It wasn’t so
much the look on their faces or the way each moved his head when he spoke.
That part was obvious. They definitely share in that look. It wasn’t
even in the exact same way Dave or Tim position their mouth or hands and
feet. The two appear just like Dad as he does while sifting through the
newspaper. Because of my brothers, I saw Dad in a natural light. I saw him
in the way the daylight danced off of silver streaks of hair and in the
gleam of their eyes and the positioning of his heart. What stood out as
much as all the other similarities were the shoes. Dave was wearing a
brown pair of worn work shoes that he had self-mended and Tim was wearing
a pair of work boots that were speckled with flecks of white paint. The
shoes look vaguely familiar, I thought. I kept looking down at the shoes
and then at Dad and then Dave and then back to Tim’s face and back to
the shoes. Was I the only one in that room that caught this family link
through shoes? Their
shoes tell the story of true laborers. They tell a story of love. The
story of a beloved husband and father. “A little giant” resting
beneath a weeping willow tree sharing in a song with his kids. It’s the
story of working in a hot and sticky tire factory and of the stench of
burning rubber and black tar stained t-shirts. A black metal lunch box
packed with memories. The story of layoffs and strikes. These shoes tell
the story of a painter. Stories of Sunday Mass and Sunday drives and road
tripping to McDonald’s. Shoes that made Saturday night trips in to town
for maple-bun-candy bars. They tell the story of calloused hands from
garden growing, tree planting, wood chopping and carpentry. Stories of so
much sacrifice. The story of shoes that made you believe in Santa! The
story of several toddlers that tried to walk in that one pair of shoes.
Disappointment and forgiveness. Stories of a real giver. A true provider.
Stories of hope and healing. The repairer of many things. By looking at
the shoes of my brothers, I lovingly remember my Father’s shoes. Shoes
filled with the stories of our lives. These shoes that have known many
difficult roads. The shoes that still teach many life lessons and leave
for me a proud path of foot prints to follow. My Dad’s shoes. The shoes
that contain the soul of our family …the shoes that have always been
filled with love.
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