Somehow saved from one of my childhood dolls which I never played with, I never consciously kept the shoe. It just keeps showing up. I’ve no idea what happened to the doll.
One inch long, the lonely plastic shoe survived moves to several countries and through numerous states and cities. I used to be nomadic. Apparently nomadic with a single doll shoe.
At the same time my heart breaks today. I heard about …the children frozen in Afghanistan.
Not that it does any good, but I’m dedicating my doll shoe to these children, and to every other child lost to war and neglect. This includes the 2.3 million under-age children with an incarcerated parent in the U.S. They’re always on every list in my thoughts.
On the opposite spectrum from the innocence of children, underneath the doll shoe I found a straight-edge razor one of my thug friends from my wild days gave me. I used to carry it on the inside pocket of my black leather jacket.
A woman’s face and hair carved into the handle, it’s base at the swivel point is mother-of-pearl, oddly which matched the mother of pearl inlay in the .38 special another guy gave me at the time. I’ve since tossed the pistol. Please don’t be afraid of me or judge, for it was all just part of my personal arsenal from years ago to hide a broken heart. I never harmed anyone with any of these. It’s the story in my book.
Right now before me I’m holding a range of life in my hands—from innocence to violence, teeny doll shoe to straight-edge razor. And it’s sharp.
These days the scale weighs towards the doll shoe, which leaves me in deep reverence for the mystery and power within each of us to change in whatever direction we choose.