When I was a child, I used to have these red Mary Jane shoes. They were my favorite. I loved the shiny red color and the buckles, but I especially loved the sound that they made when I walked. They had a slight click to them, and sounded like my mom’s heels. Walking around and hearing the clicks of my shoes made me happy. I felt like a real life Dorothy. The one who traveled to Oz. It used to be my favorite movie. I loved Glinda’s pink, poofy dress covered in sparkles. I loved all of the songs, and all of the color, but most of all, I loved Dorothy’s red shoes, because her pair reminded me of mine. These shoes, full of life and charm, became my faithful companions through childhood adventures, each scuffing and crease a tale of laughter and play. But as the seasons turned, so did the pages in my life. The red Mary Janes, once a perfect fit, became snug, then tight, until they could no longer contain my growing feet. Until they could no longer transport me to Oz and accompany me on my journey alongside the yellow brick road. Reluctantly, I retired the shoes, as they no longer served a purpose. They soon collected dust, as they sat in the depths of my closet. The deep burgundy red started to fade and lose their shine. Lose their meaning. Lose the special place in that little girl’s heart who once yearned to wear them everyday. The red Mary Janes were donated a few years later after my mother sifted through my old clothes filled with colors and characters that no longer had any significance to me anymore. Once they were placed in the box labeled “To Donate,” I never saw them ever again. I never saw the deep red Mary Janes, or heard the click of the heel against the ground. Now with larger shoes to fill, I still cherish the memory of a carefree youth of the red Mary Janes.
Short Fiction