Shoes

You were just a young girl
when they ran away
with your shoes
and hid them on the riverbank
beneath the railroad bridge.
You cried all night.
Your dad promised
he’d help you find them
first thing in the morning,
but you couldn’t wait,
and you headed out into the night
as bundled up and warm
as a small child could arrange herself,
scarf trailing behind you as you ran,
not barefoot,
but wearing the pink church shoes
with the tiny heels
your dad had bought for you
after you begged and begged,
but which now you hated
as they bit into your heels,
forming blisters in the cold.