The Shoes Beside Her Bed

These aren’t my mother’s shoes. But they remind me of them.

When my mother was dying, she chose to spend

her final days in the downstairs bedroom. It was easier. Close to the bathroom. Close to the heart of the house.

At some point, she stopped going upstairs to her room. I don’t remember exactly when.

What I do remember is going back up there after she died.

I stood in the doorway and just took it all in. Everything was exactly as she left it. The room felt full… and empty at the same time.

And then I noticed her shoes.

Sitting right beside the bed. Just how she left them the last time she took them off.

That image has never left me.

Her shoes felt like more than shoes. They held something. A life that had been lived. Movement. Presence. Breath.

And in that moment, it became very real that she would never wear them again.

It’s strange…the things that grief chooses to hold onto.

Have you ever experienced something like that?