I walk by, at the end of a long day, and see them scattered carelessly on the floor.
Somehow, they always miss the shoe shelf that I purchased specifically for the purpose of storing what covers those little feet.
But instead of shaking my head and sighing every time I bend down to pick up shoes strewn about, I only smile and choke back tears that spring up unwillingly from my eyes.
I can’t bear to make myself put the shoes away. Instead, I greedily hold on to the memory that I hope will never leave me.
In all the remnants of childhood and babyhood that fill up every nook and cranny of my house, there is something about the sight of those little shoes that never fails to stop me in my tracks.
I love those little shoes.
I love what they represent, a house filled with love and laughter, the babies who have filled those shoes and will go on to fill more shoes throughout life.
From their start growing from a but a whisper inside of me, to those first flutters of the baby’s first kick, to kissable newborn feet, to the impossible cuteness of chubby baby feet that inexpicably, I love so much. (Seriously, I love me some chubby baby feet.)
Those little feet will fill my house with their pitter-patters, they will run in circles in the hallway, their squeals of laughter filling my heart with a joy that I never knew I could feel. They will run in excitement to the swing-set outside, trod through the freshly-plowed garden, clumps of darkened soil clinging to their heels. They will splash in the pool in the summer and relax with fresh, cool sheets pulled up over them as we tuck them in at night.
The sight of those little shoes, growing larger every day until one day, my shoe shelf is filled with the shoes of adults placed neatly inside.
And I will hold back my tears.
The sight of the little shoes that once filled my days.