A mile in her Shoes

An article written in "The Writer" by Kay Honeyman (June 2008 pg.-26) caught my attention. In "Catching a Scent of a Story" she talks about remembering the scent of her father when he came in from the yard. She went on to give a wonderful description of the memories that were evoked when she catches certain smells now and then.

I thought, hum, what did my father smell like? Every night when he came home from his sheet-metal job I can still remember the smell of tin and sandwiches that came from his lunch pail when I washed it. The smell of the coffee mixed with cream and sugar that poured out of his thermos had not entered my mind in years until I had read what she had wrote.

But what did my dad smell like? I can't say. Unlike many of my friends who were always hugging their dads, I never wanted to get that close to mine.

When ever I twist off the top of my cold cream bottle I feel as though I'm releasing a genie. Her face is slathered with Ponds. As I kiss her goodnight I can smell the soft scent, her smooth cheek soft to the touch. My mother never went to bed without cleansing her face with her magic potion.

Damp wood, like that of a rotting log evokes cold, rainy and foggy memories of shingles on a pitched roof. Weather so dreary that gray was a constant in my life not just in the sky but in my family.

The memory of that house goes hand in hand with that of my sister. Half running to keep up with her, my five year old body had the energy but not the stride of her 14 year old legs.

With her it wasn't a scent but a sound that I forever associate with her. Her crepe souled shoes softly struck the pavement as we headed to her friends. Her comments were short and clipped as she raced to get ahead of me, always the burden she had to contend with.

Blissfully ignorant, I widened my stride to match hers. I was going to see all of her friends and I was happy. I especially enjoyed playing hide and go seek with them. I must have been very good at it because somehow they never seemed to find me.

The sound of the souls of her shoes, the shoes I was to stuff socks into and secretly wear to school, frequently comes back to me. Though I may have walked many times in her shoes I would never truly know what it was like to walk a mile in them as she had.

I would have to say, if there was such a smell, my sisters scent would have been the salt of tears and the heat of anger.