The Shoe Tree

Middlegate, Nevada
September 1, 2020

Thousands of soles hang with taunt laces, strung from the branches of a lone cottonwood tree. Only the bin of a cobbler would have so many discarded pairs in one place. They dangle in an imaginary wind, twirling melodically in a dance of phantom limbs. I did not want to change my shoes for another, but I scoured the piles of abandoned pairs anyways. I thought of their collective journeys - the many places and pavements each sole must have explored to be so misshapen and tattered. Like ornaments to a Christmas tree, the generations of footwear made me wish I was ready to give up mine.

The closest town has a population sign crossed out in red paint and corrected to keep an accurate census. Sixteen living residents are hardly enough souls to nurture such a tree. I stood under its branches, listening to their shared heartbeat. They asked me to dance with them, and although I followed their lead, I was not rehearsed in their polished choreography. Laces weaved and parted until the sun set under the blue ridge mountains. And I said goodbye to the shoe tree, continuing the path I tread.

What an odd fruit to bear, I thought. The shoe tree was not meant to be culled from its branches but rather, to be left threadbare and remembered. When my journey ends, I too will be barefoot.