My Dad’s Slippers
After Dad died, my mom felt it was important to give each of her ten children a little something that belonged to him. My parents spent their lives raising children, working hard, and enjoying grandchildren and retirement. They moved several times in their senior years, from homes to condos and eventually a small apartment. They would purge belongings with each move, ensuring each of us was given a few mementos.
At 93, Dad had few personal possessions with sentimental or monetary value. Mom gave Dad's garnet ring to my older brother, and my younger brother has his wedding ring. The only thing I knew for sure that I wanted from him, was to have him back. And no memento was going to do that.
A few months after his funeral, I returned to spend time with Mom. She desperately missed Dad, and I missed them both. On my first night home, I settled into the side of the bed that had been his for 70 years. I held Mom's hand, listened to her prayers, and eventually, her whispery snore.
In the morning, I put on my Dad's slippers and walked down to the lobby of her apartment to grab two cups of coffee. Sitting at her tiny kitchen table, we dunked day-old donuts in the shadowy liquid. I helped Mom with her chores, dusting furniture that didn't need it and throwing the smallest load of laundry into the washer down the hall. Sliding quarters into the slot, the machine sputtered to life, the agitator slowly moving back and forth. I sat in the gray metal folding chair where Dad used to wait to switch the laundry from the washer to the dryer. The dryers' warmth and the machines' hum always put him to sleep. Standing to leave, I closed my eyes, releasing fresh tears. I let them fall, wanting to feel them on my skin.
Throughout my visit, Dad's slippers never left my feet. It was surprising how perfectly they fit. For a man, he had small feet, and my size tens were large for a woman. The soft, light-brown leather was smooth, with no scratches or blemishes. This didn't surprise me, as I suspected he took care to keep the suede soft and clean, as he did with his church shoes. He had worn the slippers for as long as I can remember, as his feet were always cold due to poor circulation. The fuzzy cream lining was barely matted, and my feet stayed cozy and warm.
When it was time to head to the airport, Mom handed me the slippers and asked," Do you want them?" I barely recognized my childish voice as I answered, "Yes." I wasn't going to get my Dad back, but I was taking a piece of him home. We hugged, we cried, and I tucked the slippers safely into my backpack.
I don't wear his slippers often; they have found a new home on my closet shelf, the leather still soft and smooth. I slip them on when I need my Pops, and I can feel my tiny bare feet atop Dad's as we dance around the living room to Glen Miller. We still fit perfectly.
*As a side note, my Dad passed away in November of 2012 on their 70th wedding anniversary. It's been fourteen years, yet most days it feels like it was yesterday.
Bit by bit, that’s all she wrote…