Aunt Orma's Shoes

Come here, dear child

she calls me.

 

I peek inside her

bedroom, a museum.

 

Glowing blue Virgin Mary

lamp on the bedside table

 

illuminates our genealogy

contained within dusty covers

 

of leather bound photo

albums lined up like soldiers

 

on their shelves.

Jesus in his thorns,

 

eyes cast down,

hangs over her bed.

 

Her black orthopedic high-

heeled shoes rest on the floor,

 

toes neatly tucked under

blue silk hem of her quilt.

 

They look like shoes tap-dancers wear.

I wonder if she ever danced.