PHOTO PROMPT © Sarah Potter
He never moved her shoes; left them by the bed, half-tied. Tied all the way up, they hurt her feet. He’d laughed at her, but he’d loved her anyway.
They were old shoes, scuffed, holes in the sides. Life-worn shoes. Spider’s spinning silken threads, holding memories inside.
He looked at her shoes every morning and night. Thought of them as he ate. Showered. Pizza on Friday nights. As the world moved on.
It wouldn’t be wrong to say he loved those shoes; they were all he had left. Forty years. Another twenty, maybe, and his shoes would stand beside hers.
Two sparks forgotten in the night.