by Kate Hollingsworth

I added another shoe.

At first it was just a rubber slide, the left one. He used to wear those in the garden. Then left slide led to right slide, and they formed a pair at the bottom of the stairs. Sensible, at least. But next, a worn out tennis shoe. Left, right. Lawn-mowing shoes, faintly green now, treadless. And the lawn is overgrown. How bad can it be? Extra shoes, extra weeds. That, I can handle. But the spiders, no. I can’t. People say, spiders are the good ones, maybe you can relocate them outside. My hands clench. Breath shakes. Maybe you can relocate them outside, but I throw another shoe. I take another spider out of this world, this house. Buried under shoes. He’d promised to improve the front door’s seal. I remember him buying supplies. But the pile claimed his running shoes next, and the door receded from our reach. Three pairs of running shoes, actually. He’d count miles, rotate them on a schedule. He didn’t like things to wear out early. Shoes, doors, hearts. Spiders creep in. Slow. Leggy. Undeterred. I cannot beat them back like he did. The wind makes a whistling sound sometimes, sneaking under the door. I watch how-to videos on sealing gaps. But I never try. The shoe shrine grows. Chukkas. Top-siders. The spiders grow. Conspiring, spinning an elaborate webbed barricade to rival the shrine. My fear grows. Consuming, consecrating. I cannot win. He could’ve, would’ve, should’ve. The bed hides me while the how-to videos watch. How to seal. How to escape. Search results know my new emptiness. Pest control near you. Landscapers near you. Morticians near you. I call no one. The shrine takes his sturdy leather boots, well-worn, loved. He’d had them for years after scouring a “Buy It For Life” forum. He bought them for life. His, not mine. The front door is gone now. A mountain of shoes, a mountain of memories, a mountain of unwalked miles. Miles, memories, hopes, spun together under a suffocating silk shawl. A shrine eats everything. As shoes stride, as spiders scavenge, so shrines take. The best shoes for last. Leather oxfords, two pairs. One brown, one black. For client meetings, parties, funerals. A brown shoe sacrifice now, the right one. My heart slows. The black pair waits for his final funeral. Or maybe not. No one sees feet in a coffin. As he will feed this earth, I will feed this shrine. Spiders, shoes, souls. Mind, mine, me. Unbuttoned, unlaced.

Undone.

oOo

Kate Hollingsworth is an American living in Bristol, UK. Her words appear in Maudlin House, FlashFlood Journal, CafeLit, and Flash Fiction Festival Anthologies.

She is online @katehollingswrites and www.katejhollingsworth.com