There my darling Mum’s little shoes sit

still by the door, still nestled in their boxes

still tucked into the shoe cabinet, untouched

unmoved, exactly as she left them on the day

she unexpectedly departed from this earth

not a pair out of place, not a scuff mark wiped away

every pair is a page in a book I am not ready to close

Those little shoes hold more than leather and fabric

each pair holds a story, a rhythm, a fragment of her

it holds echoes of her footsteps, of the life she lived

of the ordinary moments that I never imagined

would become so sacred, to let go of her shoes

would be to admit she is truly gone, but I cannot

because the shoes make her absence feel less final

I see her little shoes by the door every day

they remind me of the way she walked through life

of how she used to slip on without a second thought

ready to head out, flashing me a radiate smile

the sight of them makes my heart ache, yet 

I cling to that pain, because it is proof of how

dearly she was loved and how deeply she is missed

In a world that races forward, these little shoes

are my rebellion, my refusal to surrender to time

maybe one day, I will open the cabinet and smile

instead of sob, but until then, her shoes remain

to me, they are not just shoes, but a love story

a bridge between all that was and all that will

never be again, between goodbye and forever