I couldn't imagine being in her situation.
I couldn't walk in my friend's shoes.
I couldn't imagine walking into the house after being
outside in the snow and not hearing my mother say,
"Kick the snow off your shoes outside!".
Or swapping shoes because we share the same foot size.
I couldn't imagine walking in her shoes,
but I can imagine how damp and sore they must be.
She doesn't know it,
nor did she intend it,
but a story I had heard about her made my eyes
damper than my snow-covered shoes.
It hit me because there was a part of the story
I could identify with, and one I couldn't.
We both write little appreciative stories inside cards on
Mother's Day. We've both done so for years.
We differ when I learn she would go outside and throw
her card as high into the sky as she could, hoping it would
reach her mother in heaven.
In that moment of the story,
her years of heartache are felt within mine.
We both expected wonderful reactions.
One particular wonderful thing about you,
I'm sure you'd like to know,
happens during my classes.
I do pay attention,
usually.
Well, I do try to at first.
But you take my mind away from my work
and make me work on a story about you and sometimes about us.
When I feel you tugging for my attention,
I usually give in.
You're much prettier of a story to tell.