On the doorstep, I count them.
There are only two, one left, one right. There used to be four and often more— you didn't use the closet as I wished. Those shoes so big I often tripped over them. Heavy, clunky, metal braces under the arch. You had to take them off every time we passed through an airport, even before the shoe bomber. I tripped over them once when you weren't home, and I took one to throw out of anger but couldn't— I feared the damage it might do. Then I considered the damage it might have done, not on a neck but on a back during a raid, you with gun drawn, directing someone not to move, put his hands behind his back. Those shoes you wore in the uniform, I respected but feared, because you might not come home. Kevlar vests don't fit women well. Unlike those shoes that brought you back until you decided it was time to leave— shoes no longer block my doorstep, no longer trip me in the dark. This poe...
