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“Pink Suede Boots.”
Decades old now, but the leather’s held up, and the curve of the instep is still elegant. I gave them away to my goddaughter, sixteen and blossoming. She was thrilled. They’re retro, they’re vintage, as I am now, who once strode the city in my invincible body, clack-clacking over Cambridge cobblestones on those sassy kitten heels like the Princess of Everything. Resilient relics from another life, they outlasted a cross-country move, a starter marriage, and a few bouts of plantar fasciitis, then languished in the abyss of my closet for years until I decided, Let her have them, this girl who is even now stretching toward love in all its many-splendored disguises like the limbs of the magnolia in April, aglow with blushing petals. And when I say they’re pink, let me be clear: not hot pink, nor bubblegum, but a dusty rose, color of desire and rue, color of the secret places inside a woman who’s been around the block a few times and knows she’s had her share, yet still wants more: to be what I was always destined to be before this burning world had its way with me.
