Stepping into my Mother's Shoes

Wanting to show off my new sandals to Elisabeth this morning, I stepped out of one of them and invited her to try it on. It fit her perfectly, as if my foot and her foot were perfect duplicates of each other.

As Elisabeth slipped her foot into my sandal, I was instantly reminded of trying on my mother's shoes as we lovingly went through her belongings in the days following her death.

As I slipped my foot into Mom's favorite well-worn Clark sandals, I audibly gasped and then tears came to my eyes. Mom's sandal fit me perfectly. Every bump, every curve and every indentation that was slowly and gently formed by Mom's foot over the years perfectly molded to mine in that instant. My toes slid easily into the wells left by hers and the wide top strap hugged my foot perfectly.

I wear Mom's sandals often -- not because I especially like them, but because I am comforted by them. Mom's sandals make me feel close to her, as if she is embracing me and holding me close.

Mom and I are still, it seems, "soul mates."