He sits outside the shoe
store every day, this thickset man approaching his middle years. To his back, the faded cursive letters
proclaiming ‘shoes mended, soles repaired’ and on his face the last warmth of
the sun before Winter turns the brightness cold and damp. In the shop window is a mismatched pair of
heels, poked haphazardly through a dusty old trellis – like you’d grow a rose
bush on. The shoes have not grown; the
leather has faded pale blue but has been dusted so heavily with time that
the upturned heels seem black with accumulated grit. The man wears a tracksuit and is slow to
smile. It was his father’s shop before
him and perhaps he was called back from happier climes to honour the wish of a
dying patriarch. Sometimes, he goes
inside. The little bell on the door
chimes wearily as it closes behind him.
The sound of cobblers’ hammers industriously beating new life into worn
and loved leather can be imagined, though no sound at all comes from the dim
little room.
