Baby Shoes

Julie. "The World in Between." The World in Between. N.p., 16 Aug. 2013. Web. 06 Dec. 2013.

Crisp, cool air penetrates my heavy, leather jacket. My fingertips, caressed in fur-lined gloves, nevertheless, tingle from the piercing cold. The trees, like dutiful sentries in two single file lines, stand erect, proudly guarding the stone buildings along the cobblestone street. Deep in the bluish-black night sky, sparkling jewels emit their brilliance, causing the ice covered branches to radiate the shimmering refractions of light. Street lamps cast a warm, yellow glow. Large shop windows entice me to come closer, tempting me with their colorful treasures. Strings of twinkling red, orange, green, and blue lights outline most of the shop windows, adding to their allure. Christmas is in the air. But, the mysteries to be uncovered within those shops will have to wait another day. With the shops long closed, I must make my way to the water’s edge. My watch calls out the lateness of the hour. As I quickly pass a burning stove, sweet syrup, mixed with nutmeg and cinnamon, waifs through the air, filling my head with memories of my mother’s kitchen. Despite the bitter cold, giggling couples and cheerful families stroll under the colorful lights, heading towards the giant pine tree laden with shiny bulbs and more lights. The stinging air no longer feels as cold. My lips reveal my inner pleasure of a seemingly increased happiness in the world at this time of year.

Approaching the glistening waters of the Danube, I spy the boat where we will have a delicious Christmas dinner. Envisioning the succulent turkey, mash potatoes, gravy, sweet potatoes, rolls and apple pie, my loneliness begins to dissipate. Being so far from home at this time of year does not feel so difficult in this moment. Walking along the brick path along the water’s edge, I admire the beauty of Budapest. A majestic stone bridge arches across the expanse of the river. No sight could be more peaceful. 

Looking down the path, I see a glint of light reflecting off an object. As I move closer, I see the sweetest pair of tiny, buckled shoes. Belonging to a child no older than three years of age, I think of the scolding mother upon her discovery that her child took off her shoe and lost it. I laugh to myself as I think about all the cell phones, umbrellas and gloves this child will probably manage to lose in the future. Walking closer to the shoes, I not only see the baby’s buckled shoes more clearly, but next to it I spy those of her mother’s and then, just beyond, her father’s. ScatteredBrown men’s leather dress shoes, hurriedly untied, with the tongue of the shoe still pulled unnaturally up; a lady’s black pumps with three inch heels, faded brown leather boots with fashionable buttons in the time of the 40s; and scores of other shoes line the edge of the bank. Each one looks as if it was ripped off the owner’s foot in haste. Fresh flowers as well as small stones fill many of these shoes. Fresh daisy pedals lay scattered on this memorial.

An iciness creeps inside my coat and gloves. Shivering, my mind races to understand. The sparkling sky no longer laughs down on me. Only the harsh, artificial street lamp along the Danube points its accusatory finger of light at me in this especially dark place. Cries of fear, disbelief, and utter horror envelope me. I cannot shoulder the enormity of their pain. Clenching my teeth, an unwelcome salty taste fills my mouth. My jeans cannot shield the coldness of the asphalt underneath my knees. My outstretched hand instinctively reaches out towards those baby shoes. As the cold metal numbs my fingertips, I look across the Danube and see the beautiful architecture of Pest, adorned in sparkling lights.