The Shoes
by Hannah Wilrush
Every morning they were there - black wedge mocassin style shoes a size or two too big - under the bench, neatly placed side by side.
Every morning we were walked through the changing rooms past the slipper locker to remind us who was in charge.
I hated the shoes with a passion rare in an 8 year old. They were ugly and there, in my line of sight, they made me feel angry.
The man who beat the children left and the slipper locker became just that again. The slippers turned overnight into a pile of old, yellowing plimsolls gathering dust. The shoes remained.
A year later I picked them up for the first time, putting my shabby broken shoes in their place. They were warm and dry and hugged my small dirty feet. I walked tall in them.
Who had put them there? An act of kindness. And they waited for me - I could help myself.
I hated the shoes with a passion rare in an 8 year old. They were ugly and there, in my line of sight, they made me feel angry.
The man who beat the children left and the slipper locker became just that again. The slippers turned overnight into a pile of old, yellowing plimsolls gathering dust. The shoes remained.
A year later I picked them up for the first time, putting my shabby broken shoes in their place. They were warm and dry and hugged my small dirty feet. I walked tall in them.
Who had put them there? An act of kindness. And they waited for me - I could help myself.
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