I dust off my great-grandmother’s shoes,
Whisper into the souls, chazak chazak v’nitchazek1.
Oh. The words fall out and land on the floor—
There are holes in the bottom, by the heels,
Tattered splotches of missing leather—they smell like
Smoke and tears. Three sizes too small. I put them on, anyway.
My feet ache. But these shoes have survived:
Stones. Words. Filth. Slaughter. Escape. Freedom.
I can survive another mile. Her feet must have ached too.
I wear them. She creases her brow, staring at my blisters,
Which mimic hers. She wears hers proudly, and I don’t understand
Why she kvetches about mine. She takes care to undo
The knotted laces. I wince as she slides them off my battered feet.
I wore them so you don’t have to. Oh. She helps me back into
My shoes—expensive and new, splotched with nothing more than paint.
She sings to me. I go home in my expensive shoes, having forgotten the ache.
Years later, I slip on my shoes. There are holes in the heels, now.
Chazak chazak v’nitchazek. Why is it that her shoes are now mine?
- “Be strong, be strong, and may we strengthen one another.” ↩︎
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