Mit Mit Kalkatta
I remember
trying on my mother’s shoes
whenever she was out, or I was bored and wanted to
play house.
My childhood feet in adult shoes-
The ones with high heels she would only wear to church.
Or to weddings. Silver ones studded with
White stones that shimmered in the light.
Red ones tinged with gold.
A pair of black ones with heels that looked like
Pillars of old Greek Corinthian structures.
Those flat elastic shoes she would only
Wear to the market.
Juti elastic.
On Saturday mornings mainly.
Shopping for meat and vegetables and fruits at Iewduh.
I would accompany her often. Once,
I even swallowed a fly.
I remember
because that
was the first,
and only,
time
I ever swallowed a fly.
My mother owned too what seemed like hundreds of slippers,
Flat
as my neighbour’s nose,
in colours as extensive as the rainbow
I would draw in my drawing book.
These she would wear on weekdays,
to school usually.
And she would always
match her slippers with her jainsem.
I, on the other hand,
was always in shoes that were white
and buckled
with socks that were whiter and had lace on them.
If it was a fancy occasion.
I now walk around in floaters and socks.
Sandals or slippers.
Because when they fit
Pretty shoes like my mother’s
hurt.
Written by The Winner of The Half and One Spring Poetry Contest, Laurette Dkhar
Edited by Naphtali Langstieh