Shoes To Somewhere

I must have been six or younger then. Mama took me for a walk one morning. Must be special occasion, I thought like Sunday mass or someone's birthday Pomade sticky, smelling good, shining on my hair which Mama parted on the left. My new pair of black shoes hurt my tiny toes. I didn't mind, we were going somewhere, we. Her gentle, protective hand clutching mine. But I had to double, triple my pace to catch up with her, and I stumbled once in a while, but she helped me up. She slowed down with me, carefully down some gray, gravelly road in my young town. Still my pair of black shoes hurt my tiny toes. I didn't mind, I was going somewhere, I. .