Memories are branches of a tree. Memories have roots.
Memories engrained in the soles of your feet that sit suspended, (like Spanish moss), on the ghostly arms of an old spirit. Memories have power: brilliant or… otherwise.
Shoe Tree holds memories.
On a single lane stretch of antique highway, where grooves and cracks decorate the pavement one-hundred summers old, Shoe Tree stands alone. Sneakers and kicks and high-tops and cleats. Memories soaked up from the soles into our souls and suspended in time forever. Shoe Tree knows laughter, of children boomeranging Keds that will not loop around to them, but loop around a skyward branch. Shoe Tree knows love: one pink shoe, one blue, tied together with the shoes’ strings –the heartstrings– and tossed into the open arms of a wise old oak. Shoe Tree knows history, of a person starting anew but is happy to save the past.
In the isolation of the north, population: ~2,500, St. Helen holds the world’s treasure box: population 7 billion. And Shoe Tree stands alone…
Shoe Tree stood alone.
Shoe Tree no longer stands.
But memories are branches of a tree. And memories have roots, too. And we remember memories of Shoe Tree… as it remembers us.
Shoe Tree used to stand in St. Helen, MI.
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