Stained Shoes
Sometimes her eyes acted the way her brain could not.
I guess it was a morbid expression of muscle memory. It wasn't every time, but occasionally, she seemed to recognise my shoes. Not me, but my shoes. The shoes she used to mock insistently. Almost taking it too far at times. But I loved her for it. Not many have a true friend in their mother.
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They were stained with dirt. Dirt from the first week I got them. I was on a "they can just go in the washing machine" kick. I had only just discovered that people put their trainers in the washing machine. I felt invincible. It was similar to when I found that mixing colours in the wash doesn't matter. Thus far, anyway. You would see catastrophes in adverts and TV shows, where some idiot left a red sock in with the whites. A pink t-shirt. Oh my God. How embarrassing. A man in a pink t-shirt? Get outtaaaa here.
So, the shoes went into the washing machine, and it worked. However, the freedom made me sloppy. I think I'm better off with loose handcuffs than empty hands. Every day I kicked grass, and my Mum knew what would happen, but there was a lesson to be learned. First came the laces, a diluted brown coated the front. Then came the tongue. Soo, the shoes were brown.
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My family rarely swear. It annoyed me, but as an adult, I recognised they were from a different time. Back in their day, "Fuck” was like a slap in the face. Not only that, the punishment for saying such a vile word was often a literal slap in the face.
"Have you seen my trainers?"
"What trainers?"
"The adiadas ones?"
"Your shit shoes?"
I erupted with laughter. It wasn't even a clever joke. It was the shock that got me, she swore! My Mum was also floored. We laughed for a long time. Weeks after, picking up the shoes in her presence sent us both into fits of laughter.
********************
I arrived at the home. She seemed lifeless. No reaction to me entering the room. I was told she had been arguing with some of the other women- paranoia taking over.
"Hey Mum, do you know who I am? I'm Brian, your son."
She smiled, but it was the sort of smile you'd give us a bus driver. It was facial lip service, and I knew it. I had never seen her this bad. Normally, I could rehash the past, and one or two stories would ignite her mind. That day, nothing. It felt wrong to believe, but in that moment and many moments before and after that day, the worst part was that she was surviving. Her body was functioning fine, and the doctors told me she had a few more years left before she forgot how to breathe. The notion of forgetting how to breathe always sank my heart for a second. The fact that it is possible scares me to no end.
Before I left, I remembered I had brought a gift. I found some gems during one of the many attempts to clear her house.
"You remember these?" I said as I slowly revealed the 'Shit Shoes' from my bag. Her face lit up. She was alive. I lost the battle with my tears. We laughed like we did forty years ago.
"Shit Shoes." she blurted out. I hugged her tight.
Sometimes her eyes and heart worked perfectly.