Day Twenty Six: Loafers
I never saw my parents’ wedding photos. They weren’t framed on tables in our family room or hung on the wall going by the staircase.
Mum let me use her two-piece wedding dress for my Princess Leia costume when I was eleven and didn’t care at all when I returned from trick-or-treating with the hem all chewed up and dirty. It went back into the dress up box and stayed there. Not sure where it is now.
I think Dad’s tux was a rental. But he did own his shoes: a pair of brown loafers that he kept tucked away on the floor of his closet. When I walk back through that house in my memory, I forget that closet is there - though I often hid in it during hide-and-seek. I remember the loafers, though he never wore them.
But that didn’t mean he wasn’t upset when my brother’s hamster, Fidget, escaped his cage and was found, days later, sleeping in the chewed leather of his wedding loafers.
I still don’t think he threw them out. They either went to the basement or they went out to the garage - in both cases to gather dust.
But actually, now that I think of it, maybe I’m remembering the old cross county ski boots that were kept in the same, unceremonious, way.