For much of the past twenty years, my social life has rotated around the axis of my children's activities. Lots and lots of hours at the soccer pitch. Guitar recitals and concerts. Plays and kung fu tournaments. Diving meets and figure skating. Art lessons and tumbling.
One of my sons was heavily involved in choir in middle and high school. Choir was a refuge for him, a place where he shone. Middle school is not an easy time for many tweens, and I felt so grateful for the way choir gave him a home.
I had saved his old choir shoes to pass along to his younger brother, but realized they were too threadbare to be used by another. I knew they needed to go to the trash, but I wanted to honor them before doing so. That yearning became this poem.
I was the kind of child who believed everything had feelings, and would feel worried when I ignored a favorite stuffed animal in favor of another or sad when I sold some in our annual garage sale. I don't know that much has changed as an adult - I still feel tender towards everything.
I feel so tender towards these black oxfords, grateful for the feet they cradled. I feel grateful for the man who once wore them, and grateful for the choir that helped him find himself.
Saying Goodbye to My Son's Choir Oxfords
They cradled his feet when they were four sizes
smaller, before he grew half a foot to his full height.
He wore the black oxfords to choir concerts
and banquet dinners, the black laces tied
across the ridge of each foot. The shoes are too
threadbare to pass along to another, cracks in
the leather that can't be repaired with polish or a wish.
Instead I walk them to the garbage can with chants
of hallelujah, a praise song on my lips for each night
they held my son's socked foot. Thirteen is brutal,
demanding everything as you live or fight against
the urge to blossom. A choir that helps you find your
voice is rich soil for the smallest bud. I hum a tune, a
harmony of thanksgiving, as I place the shoes in the bin.
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With a grateful heart, Karly