The Shoe Tree

A grey sky hung low over a grey town.

The grass had withered away and over everything resided a thick layer of dust.

Men and women alike wore dark circles under their eyes. Their clothes were covered in the same grey dust as their surroundings.

Wind dragged small objects down the quiet streets, disturbing the dust and sending it swirling.

A mouse darted across the road, looking for a hole to sequester itself within.

In this dreary place, even the sun was robbed of the glory of its demise, and rather than shooting trails of colour as it sank below the horizon, the fog consumed it.

Mothers ushered their children inside, and fathers sat down to a meal, weak smiles plastered to their faces.

From one house, rose a wail.

Doors shut, keeping out the noise of tragedy.

A lone man stepped out of the sobbing house.

In his large hands were a pair of shoes, smaller than his palms.

He began making his slow way down the street, his footfalls muted.

Children peeked through curtains and were pulled away from the sight.

Children did not need to be burdened with the cares of the deceased.

There was one spot of colour in this strange place.

A huge field of candy red poppies.

The flowers swayed and bobbed their heads, smiling at one another, unaware of the misery surrounding them.

The Blood Field.

Up out of this meadow of cheerful despair, rose a tree.

The man paused at the edge of the flowers to gaze at it.

The Shoe Tree rose tall, its limbs spreading out like the fingers of a skeleton against the grey sky.

It was bare of leaves, but adorned with shoes.

Hundreds of shoes.

All tied by the laces and in pairs.

Some were well worn, others had clearly never left the box before they were sent to live out their days in this tree.

Knitted booties, meant for a newborn.

Large, steel-toed boots with a hole worn through the heel.

High heels, proud of the women they once carried.

Sneakers that trekked to and from school every day for years.

The man inhaled a shaky breath and squeezed the shiny child’s shoes in his hands.

Steeling himself, he stepped into the Blood Field.

Flowers clustered around his legs, kissing him as he passed by.

He reached the trunk and stared up into the labyrinth of shoes.

All of the low-hanging branches were overrun, so he swung himself up into the tree and began to climb.

The tree shook with the large man’s weight, but none of the shoes slipped. They had all been tied in place by shaking but determined hands, and they were stubborn in their residence.

The man reached one of the highest branches. There were a pair of shoes already hanging there, identical to the ones in his hands.

Trembling, he slipped the child’s shoes onto the branch with its sibling’s.

He nearly fell out of the tree in his hurry to get out.

His feet touched the ground, and he collapsed to his knees.

The flowers embraced him, caressing his face and wondering what could make such a strong man suddenly so weak.

The grey sky was nearly black when he forced himself to his feet.

He waded back through the Blood Field and he did not look back at the Shoe Tree.

He walked stoically back to the wailing house that had fallen silent, and left that tree full of death behind.