A Mile In Her Danskos
Happy Mother’s Day!
For all of my childhood, a row of rotating Danskos waited by our front door. Every morning, just before the sunrise, my mom would shuffle down the hall in a muffled hurry trying not to wake the rest of the house. For most of her routine, her husband and three daughters would be sound asleep before the impending explosion to get to school. It wasn’t until we heard the dull thuds of thick soles on our faux wood floor that we’d start sauntering out of our dreams — often snapping awake just as the screen door latched back into place. The dogs didn’t stir anymore. They’d lazily readjust to sleeping in the same spot where my mom’s legs had just been — savoring the warmth. As my consciousness returned back to Earth, I’d hear those Danskos crunch across our gravel driveway, the car door shut, and our 1985 Suburban roll out of the driveway.
Those Danskos had a long day ahead of them. After an hour of driving, they’d cover every hallway of our small town’s hospital, nursing homes, and prisons. For 16 hours a day, the Danskos were on the clock. They would hustle from patient rooms and medical centers to supply closets and emergency rooms — rarely finding a moment to sneak away to the break room. A layer of disinfectant and grime building on the bottom of their soles. Their linings memorializing every toe and the exact arch of her feet.
Luckily, the Danskos rotated throughout the week depending on the scrubs my mom chose to wear that day — the black and the navy shoes covering most shifts. Over the years, their rounded toes would begin to scuff from curbs in the parking lot and wheels of medical carts. They would inevitably submit to their well-earned retirement long before the woman wearing them ever would.
I often wonder if we’ll know all that her shoes have witnessed. All the care, laughter, sweat, and hard work that came from the woman who wore them day after day. They carried so much, and I’m grateful that to this day, they continue to carry her home. Back then, at 7:00 pm on the dot, the dogs would begin to stick their heads up at the window. They knew the pair of shoes missing from the row they were shuffling around was finally bringing their favorite person in the universe home any minute now. Sometimes, that minute would last for hours, but they’d wait there just the same. As soon as the gravel pressed under the tires, they’d frantically bark and yelp and knock every shoe out of place before barreling through the dog door on top of each other. Returning a few minutes later and dodging, the Danskos kicked off into the pile that formed at the door.
Most nights, there was about an hour of chaotic perfection. The dogs bark, the shoes fly, the TV blares a cartoon or baseball game while the girls are clearing their homework from the table so Mom can sit. The Danskos lay askew under the table long after dinner was over. They stay through the hour Dad rubs Mom’s swollen feet before his shoes are fished from the pile and off to their own shift in the DJ booth. They stay through the girls finishing their homework and turning off the lights. Decades later, the Danskos no longer find themselves mixed in with children’s shoes and dog toys. The house is much quieter, but some things stay the same. Every night around 3:00 am, Dad’s sticky soles still make their way silently through the door. The Danskos are collected from under the table and returned back to their place in the row.
Waiting for just a few hours of the early morning until they once again are called for duty.
