The first thing I think about about are my shoes. My first pair of heels I bought when I was fifteen. Looking at my fourteen year old sister I realise that I was a little late in life in purchasing the wooden pink strappy wedge which cost all of fifteen euro in a rickety old shoe store on dun laoire's george's street, but wow was I in love with them. I'd wear them to weddings in foxrock, the disco down in donnybrook, and inappropriately the funerals down in deansgrange. Then came the glittery, shiny, patent ones from River Island or New Look, when I first started making the 'big bucks' working in the café. With these shoes I discovered my fondness for Bourjois pretty fuchsia toe polish and my hatred for those water drains which seemed to occupy most of D'Ollier Street late at night. However, when turned twenty-one, when I got my first cheque and saw four figures, I was up with the big guns. It was then when I discovered New York. New York was where I became the Tony Soprano of shoes. My target, Blahnik on 54th street, Louboutin on Madison Avenue and Jimmy Choo on fifth Avenue. These names would strike fear in the heart of any true shoe mobster. My unhealthy collection of suede boots, peep toe stilettos, floral wedges, delicately beaded kitten heels sat back in my Central Park West apartment, mourning my departure in my maple wardrobe. The thought of it brings me back down to reality. Mourning my departure? When would I return? I glance around the bright lime green room with floral curtains and a 12 inch black TV, and realise that I don't know when I'll return to ever wear those shoes again. As my mother returns, humming what sounds like a gospel song and holding two coffee cups, I voice these concerns to her.
'But darling of course you will wear shoes again.' She says with a duhhhh quality to her voice.
'Yes but mum,' I protest. 'These particular shoes, they're….' and pause to catch a breath, 'Indescribable'.
'Don't be silly Sophie who looks at shoes?' she places one cup on my overbed table, I look at it then look away.
'Exactly! Who will look at my shoes with bars of metal around me and two wheels where my ass used to be to distract them.' I sigh, heavily. 'So really, mum there is no point. I wont wear them again.'
My mother's everlasting smile starts to fade and with a pursed mouth she says firmly as if trying to convince herself, 'You will wear them again.'
'Yes but I'll never walk in them again.' I mutter but its too late the smile has returned to my mother's face and she's gone, lost in 'To God be the Glory' or something to that effect. I prop myself up on my elbows further up the bed to look out the window. God I hate being home, clouds are constantly grey over here. Grey should be the colour of Ireland, not green.
'And honey,' she interrupts her humming to look at me with wide eyes. 'Could you not say ass next time please, love, how about bum?' she suggests, with full sincerity. Ass, ass, ass, ass, ass, ass, ass, I say repeatedly in my head which makes me remember my sister when she was younger. She would discover new curse words, when I was still living at home and would scream them from the top of her lungs. Words like 'Bitch' and 'Ass' would be screamed every odd week followed by a stern telling off. But my sister always had a swift reply like 'What? I'm talking about a female dog.' or 'Ass, that's another name for a donkey you know.' Now that I think of her I wonder where she is today. She's normally in to me everyday after school. Those curses from her have become a regular occurrence, minus the explanation.
