shoes at the door

I won't ask how much you paid for your walkin' shoes, as mine own are creased, cracked, and not for sale. Kick them off entering grandma's house, she insists, leave'em at the mat, ignore the scent of burnt peonies as you enter. She's lost her sense of smell at ninety, but is in full faculty of her ancient funny bones. She'll tell you of the redhead stomping grapes barefoot, black farm mud oozing between her small toes in 1922, or looking over her shoulder in Atlantic City, imagining the phantom of the beach step by stepping into her playful duck prints. And don't get her going about a favorite eccentric uncle teasing a wide-eyed wonder of six just how there's only one proper barefooted way to prepare scrambled eggs.

image:
ParkeHarrison
Study of Nest, 1994