Worry

Once finger surgery scheduled, Bob obsessed.

How would he put his shoes on?

Tie them?

When his dominant hand out of commission?

So he thought about buying no-tie laces.

To replace those in current shoes.

Or to seek slip-in foot ware.

Which he found in Santa Barbara.

In a Sketchers shop.

Mailing home two pairs.

Black, laceless sneakers.

Readying them to use.

But, out of nowhere, appeared off-white leather shoes.

Next to the black ones.

I looked at them.

Studied them.

Sure Bob would never buy white footwear.

Where did they come from? I asked.

Bob’s answer, quick.

My closet. I must have bought them a long time ago.

Said in a-pat-himself-on-the-back tone.

For cleverness, ingenuity.

On the morning of surgery, he donned the Sketchers.

Where are the white ones? I asked.

On the floor of the coat closet, he yawned.

I scrutinized his face.

Then I said, you didn’t buy them.

Surprised, he asked, I didn’t?

No, they belonged to Mac, your mother’s second husband.

Forty years ago, after Mac passed, she insisted Bob take the shoes.

Saying they were never worn.

Same size as Bob’s.

Though labeled wide, seeming narrow.

But here they were.

Relocated with us from Dresher to Elkins Park.

The ghost of Mac leapt out.

Bounding down in Nunn Bush slip-ons.

On a route quite roundabout.

Lynn Benjamin

December 8, 2023