I took a quick hold of my son.

My eyes were like a portal to a black hole.

Harry— the way I said his name- with a mixture of something that was not myself.

I grabbed his hand in a quick motion.

My eyes now seemed to be staring off into outer-space.

Harry— I choked on his name- with a tinge of scarlet spewing out of my chest.

I pushed him, and he landed in the back of the Nalikwanda.

My heart sank.

Harry— I whispered his name, and hoped that Nyambe and the Zambezi gods would keep watch over him.

#Kuomboka

1.7.25

https://youtu.be/dulzKNE0Yww?si=sUCWx5jQGUdeyFBy

My stomach rumbles in hunger, nudging all the way to my backbone with a stark reminder I haven’t eaten anything substantial in two days. Crackers someone discarded along with a mostly eaten Taco Salad from a local, fast food chain has been all I managed to find while scavenging for food and hoping for something better.

It's only a bit further before I’ll reach the Goodwill Store. I pat my pocket, making sure my last ten dollars is still there, safe and sound. I release a sigh of relief. Hopefully, it will buy what I need first and foremost today. I’m not a praying woman - or much of a believer in God these days - but from habits borne of instilled behavior, a prayer to anyone, anywhere leaves my mouth: please let me find a pair of size 11 shoes for my boy. Tommy has long since outgrown the shoes he’s wearing, his big toes peeping out of the tattered soles. It’s getting colder by the day, so finding a pair of decent shoes a ten-year old boy will want to wear is a must. If I can do that, I’ll worry about dinner afterwards, but I know all too well ten dollars will only stretch so far.

I enter Goodwill and immediately head to the shoe racks. Making a swift glance over the children's section, I spy a pair of brown boy boots. They are slightly worn and weathered, but it’s evident they still have a whole lot of life left. Some child most likely outgrew them before he had time to wear them. With pent up, deep-seated breath in my chest, I reach to lift them. “Please, please, please,” I plead to no one in particular. I’m overdue some luck, so please, for the love of God, let these boots be the right size.

Grasping the boots, I turn them over and release my breath. They’re a size 12, which will leave some growing room. Thank the universe! One prayer answered and one to go. My hand grapples with the price tag, anxious to know the cost. Do I have enough money? I manage to turn it over and want to cackle with glee - to cry so great is my relief. Eight dollars. With the tax added, I have just enough money. There will only be a dollar and spare change left over, but I’ll gladly take this deal all day long.

As I wait in line, I’m trying not to dwell on the fact my ten dollars is evaporating into air, and I still don't have anything for supper. Tommy’s feet, however, are more important than eating right now. He gets free breakfast and lunch at school, so at least I know he gets two square meals on school days, and I can easily go without – again. It is a sacrifice I will easily choose.

Unbidden, from buried memories I thought long dead, a quote surfaces in my mind. It’s something my Momma had written down in her little book of quotes:

“I once complained because I had no shoes until I saw a man who had no feet.”

What the hell? Where did that come from? I remember it's a quote attributed to Victor Hugo, though many argue he wrote it.

The quote reminds me of the brutal, hard force of reality that struck my life four years ago after my worthless husband, John, left Tommy and me. Then, to make matters worse, I lost my job six months ago, which catapulted me into this crux of a die hard situation I find myself in today: food or Tommy's shoes. I hadn’t thought of my Momma’s little green book in all that time, but waiting here in line, I vividly recall how much I used to love reading those quotes in her book as a child. The memory of my Momma, along with the quote, crashes into me, nearly bringing me to my knees. I am filled with unexpected longing and deep sadness. I desperately want my Momma and I want to weep where I stand. Tears escape my tired eyes, rolling down my tired, stress weathered face.

Looking all around, I swipe at the tears, trying hard to regain my composure. I will be next up at the register, so I don't need to go over there looking like I'm crying, or worse yet, like I'm begging. I already looked like hell warmed over - or worse.

“Next,” the cashier all the way at the end called and watched my approach.

I carefully place the boots on her counter, as though they are brand, spanking new and made of glass, but this is no fairy tale in the making and these shoes are definitely not made of glass though their value to me is immeasurable.

I knew the cashier continued to watch me as I stand there, reaching into my pocket, but I try my best to ignore her. Can she see the dried tears on my face? So what? Though I might need it, I don’t want her charity - or worse yet, to be looked down on as ‘less than’. I pull the wadded-up bill out of my pocket, eager to seal the deal, leave, and take the shoes home to my boy. As I look up, I see I was right: the woman is carefully watching me though she has the decency to look away when my eyes meet hers.

“How are you, dear?” she asks, her voice oddly nonchalant. I must look bad…..really bad…..for her to take such care with her tone. She's older than my Momma would have been, her grey hair sparsely covered in cheap brown hair dye. Yes, I am sure she's looking down her nose with disdain at me. I resist the urge to raise my arm. I hiked a mile or more to Goodwill, so maybe I've begun to smell. I guess there are worse things though....like no shoes....or no feet......

"I'm fine,” I quip back, not the least interested in small talk. The silence stretches between us for long moments before she speaks again.

“Well, you hit the jackpot with these here boots, honey,” she says in her best Southern drawl while giving me a smile. “See here? The green dot on the price tag?” She points to the price tag.

My eyes quickly drift to the green dot. I hadn’t paid it any attention until now. Had it even been there when I picked up the boots?

“Yeah?” I ask, nearly afraid to ask exactly what ‘jackpot’ I’ve hit.

“Well, the green dot tells me these boots are 80% off the sticker price, honey – today and only today. Yes, mam, it's a jackpot! I have a feeling some little boy is sure going to be mighty happy!”

In disbelief, I hear the words leave her mouth but I can't quite fathom what she's said. A glow of pure joy spreads across the older woman’s face, much like a light. It's as though she knows just how much her words mean. I quickly do the math: if the boots are less than $2.00, it means I'll have most of my money left to spend on dinner.

The older woman leans over the counter, gives me a wink, and lowers her voice to a whisper so only I will hear the next words she speaks. “Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus.”

Dumbfounded, I cannot utter a word. How in the world does she know my name was actually Virginia and why would she say such a thing to me? Enlightenment sweeps in and strikes to my core. Without a doubt, I know the words the woman just spoke can be applied to my dismal life in more ways than mere boots, Santa, or Christmas.

Grateful and ecstatic, I grab hold of the woman’s hand as she hands me my package, thanking her profusely and returning her smile. It' the the first genuine smile that's graced my face in a very long time. I wonder if this woman is an angel or my long-gone Momma incognito because in the crux of my soul, in the hidden recesses of my heart, something has surfaced that's not been recognizable for a very long time: it is hope.

A smile still gracing my tired visage, I make my way next door to the grocery store and spend my remaining money on bread, canned meat, and green beans for supper. Still smiling, my thoughts turn to getting back home where I'll be able to see Tommy’s expression when he sees the boots. I can hardly wait.

"Hope is being able to see that there is light despite all of the darkness.” – Desmond Tutu

I stop on the sidewalk

outside the shoe store.

A window sign says,

“Sale: This A.M. Only.”

I think of my son Jimmy

and the holes in his soles

and the blisters on his feet

and my last ten bucks

until next payday.

Then I notice

the breakfast place next door.

I think of my empty stomach

that growls and howls,

and my last sawbuck

until next payday.

And I reluctantly

acknowledge that due to

rumors spreading like tumors

at the factory where I work,

there may not be

a next payday.

I ponder my plight

and cried as I decide

to tear off two pieces

from my cardboard sign

that says, “Will work for food.”

“These are for Jimmy’s shoes,”

I say, then enter the eatery,

just me and my Hamilton.

My hands are not unskilled.

Laborous, light, and fingers uncurled.

I can bring in the work of a needle, a cut of thread too, but not with ten dollars. No, that won't do.

I could portion out my hands, free of charge. But the glue is the demand.

More than I can fork over, but less than I can obtain. I'm sure I can bargain our way from the ten to more per say.

Stop a person in public. Post online. My phone is already paid. I have shed most dimes. I can ask for an exchange, purge a garage of a little unused shame.

Nickle and toil. Gather and clutch, fill holes with steel stick, and a bit of saw dust.

They'll last him a minute. A heavier shoe.

I won't have my son walk on bare 'human' Earth, I can go hungry for a few.

In the end, he knew the lengthy legal fight that drained his finances and soul was worth the sacrifices, not only to reclaim his reputation but to get his kids back into a stable environment. When life pivoted and took him on a journey he never imagined he’d be forced to take, his priorities shifted. Things he once considered important fell by the wayside. His focus redirected.

After the allegations became public, he wasn’t surprised by his employer’s decision to let him go. Too much pressure from outside forces. Bad for business. This added fuel to his burning desire to prove all of them wrong. His comfortable life had been uprooted by the baseless accusations leveled against him. After reading her spurious reasons for divorcing him, printed on letterhead from a prominent law firm, he knew it would be a protracted battle. Spite is a cancerous motivator to make someone else’s life miserable. And she was hellbent on fulfilling the promise she made when he told her he’d leave if she didn’t get help.

He did not return the hate in kind because he knew this tact would aid in his healing. Despite her attempt to erase him from history, he was able to reconnect with his children. He rebuilt bonds that shouldn’t have been shattered in the first place, bonds that were severed by the negative propaganda spewed from her, her lawyers and faceless trolls on social media. He gained full custodial rights when her second 10-panel drug test came back 100% positive.

He turned resourceful once the shared credit cards and bank account were frozen. Always good with money, living on a budget wasn’t a foreign concept to him. Still, the idea of struggling to provide for his kids was frightening. He relied on the same approach he has used when facing past obstacles in his life – accepting that it’s a multi-level challenge to be met one step at a time while acknowledging even the smallest victory is a sign he’s moving forward.

Once the kids were on their way to school and the apartment tidied up, he spent the mornings pounding the pavement, taking any part-time job that would pay him, preferably in cash, and allow him to be finished before the kids got off the bus. His shoes were wearing out, but not at the same rate as his son’s. So, patching the hole in the bottom of the eldest’s shoe was on top of the list.

Tonight’s main entrée centered around the generic, discounted mac and cheese prepared from a box that was part of the few groceries his last ten dollars bought. He was tolerant of the off-putting taste. His kids were Kraft kids, so they just thought this was a special variation. Going to bed with small bellies full keeps the hunger pangs from dominating their dreams.

Sitting in the quiet at the kitchen table, he eyes the tiny cardboard box still smelling of dried pasta retrieved from the trashcan. He separates the glued seams and flattens it. With the correct orientation, he cuts out two full insoles and a half one that will cover the area beneath the toes. He’s confident, assuming the rain holds off, this temporary repair to his son’s left shoe will last until the next payday.

His sense of worth from this fix is invaluable. He knows the better days he had longed for years ago when this nightmare started are nearing. And like a Spring fog that lifts by late morning, blue skies will be prevalent in his and his kids’ lives soon.

They don't look too bad on the surface.

But,when your life is bottom up, all you seam to see is holes.

Three holes,how ironic.

Really it's one hole,and two stretcched out beyond their means.

Hmm,Adidas.I guess i have to start pulling my weight.

Nah,that's a Sad i da.

Maybe i got it backwards?

It's hard to swallow you're pride,when you're choking on tears,everytime your family leaves in the morning.

I guess,i'll put them on,they are small though,but im feeling small myself,i guess i'll push on.

They dont feel too bad.

What's that in the bottom?

A toonie?

Now i got ten bucks.

Where do i start?

I've never had to stoop this low before.

But,I guess you don't have a choice,when your son and wifes backs are up agains the wall daily.

Never done this before,Do i get on my twoknees,and beg like a loony?

That's not fair.

Who am i too judge? Why some people wear their asses off,hitting the cold pavement everyday.

They do hurt my feet though.

I guess it'll give me a reason to sit and rest my feet when i get there.

What are you doing here,Dad?

Move over you guys.

Dad,i though you were heading into the mall?

No,can,t shop til you drop.

You need a pillow Dad?

Nah,I'm good.