It struck me this afternoon that even a mediocre detective could deduce quite a lot about happenings around here by simply noticing the footwear left behind in almost every single room of our house.
First would be the big heavy boots with loose laces beside the door. Sitting in a puddle, one upright and one on its side, they speak of cold work done in the early morning. Inches beyond them lies a pair of smallish slippers left behind as smallish feet stepped out of them and into the missing pair of smallish boots--the muddy footprints remain.
A little further in and one notes large tennis shoes, untied but still holding the position of the teen boy who sat down and then walked away, neatly stepping out of the shoes and leaving them as if waiting for him to resume his slumped position at some point in the evening. On to the kitchen, where a tall pair of wooly boots sits beside a school bag, each stuffed with a warm mitten. Recess duty in February. Brrr...
And the lone ballet flat, sitting on the bed next to an abandoned sweater tells its own story--one shoe, while just right for today's outfit, is useless as a single. It teeters near the edge, ready to slide onto the pile below. Next to the pile lies another, this one with its mate. Wrong color? And which ones made the cut?
Room after room and shoe after shoe. It's like a trail of breadcrumbs that helps us remember where we've been.