Tying My Shoes

I would pull the laces of my worn sneakers on the couch down really really fast. I’d watch the dust and fibers pull and float away, like the fairies in the sunlight. My shoes on the arm of the couch, even though mom would holler if she saw. I’d watch the little specks of shoelace fly from the motion and watch them float carelessly away, the snugness of my shoe a feeling I had on my shoulder, like the memory of a bruise, no way to describe the little soft ache.. Then I would loosen the laces and do it again. And again, And again. And again. Rip, float, pull. Rip, float, pull. “Sparks.” My young mind would murmur, even though I knew then as I know now that there was no way to start a fire with cloth strips. But I would imagine my foot, the top of it, where the skin met my leg, was growing warmer. Even now, I hear mom getting ready in the bathroom. She cried last night. She cries a lot the morning after she comes home late. Rip, float, pull. Rip, float, pull. I sit up on the couch, I see myself from above. My sneakered feet make a soft sound on the thin carpet. I can feel it with the soles of my feet even if I have the sneakers on. All rough, squares of slightly singed thread from where hot, hot sunlight had made its mark. I play with the loops of my laces now, thinking about being small enough to travel through the forests of carpet fiber.