You have such small feet that whenever I come home to your shoes in the front hallway some part of childhood rears. Tired from the day and the commute and the stairs and the key in the door, I see your evening shoes off in the hall and think of after school specials. Babysat by Mrs. Bridshall, no shoes in her blue house. The one white sandal lost at Risser's Beach and it was too dark to go back for it. One white sandal on one white sand beach. One grey ocean under one dusk sky. I come home tired from talking and typing, head tired more than foot sore. My shoes next to yours in the front hall I tip toe toward where you sit. Shouting answers at the blue Jeopardy.