Memory Maintenance

Harold kept three pairs of shoes by the front door, though he hadn’t worn any of them in years. There was a scuffed pair of brown loafers from his teaching days, a pair of walking shoes that still had a tag dangling from one lace, and one set of old army boots that could tell more stories than Harold ever dared to.

Most mornings, his niece, Carrie, would stop by to check on him. She was a whirlwind of sensible energy, always balancing coffee, keys, and conversation simultaneously.

On this particular morning, she stopped short when she saw Harold polishing one of the old boots.

“Uncle Harold,” she said, setting her coffee down, “you don’t even have feet anymore. What are you doing?”

He looked up, squinting through thick glasses. “Well, just because I lost my feet doesn’t mean I have to lose the habit.”

Carrie sighed, though she was smiling. “You’re the only man I know who shines shoes for nostalgia.”

“That’s not nostalgia,” he said. “That’s memory maintenance. If I don’t keep these boots in shape, they’ll start telling lies about me.”

Carrie laughed, but there was a truth sitting quietly in the corner with the cat. Harold had lost both legs below the knees two years ago, but he never let that story take center stage.

He preferred to talk about the time he marched in a parade in those boots, or how he’d danced with her aunt, rest her soul, in those loafers until the soles nearly gave out. He treated those shoes like old friends: retired, yes, but not forgotten.

One day, a neighbor boy wandered over, curious about the man. Harold welcomed him in, the way he did everyone, with a joke and a glass of lemonade.

“Sir,” the boy said after a while, “why do you keep all those shoes if you can’t wear them?”

Harold smiled. “Well, son, that’s a fair question. But let me ask you something, do you have a favorite toy?”

“My baseball glove,” the boy said without hesitation.

“And when you outgrow it,” Harold continued, “you gonna throw it away?”

The boy frowned. “No, I’ll keep it. My dad says it’ll remind me where I started.”

“Exactly,” Harold said. “These shoes remind me where I’ve been. I may not walk in them anymore, but they still carry me places in my mind.”

Later, when the boy left, Harold turned to Carrie. “See? Even kids understand it better than adults sometimes.”

Carrie grinned. “Maybe so. But I still think three pairs is excessive for a man who rolls everywhere he goes.”

He pointed at her sneakers. “Careful, young lady. You’re one broken lace away from understanding me completely.”

That earned him another laugh, which was really what he wanted. Harold figured laughter was the best polish for the soul, keeps it from drying out and cracking under the weight of living.

That evening, as the house quieted, he looked at the lineup by the door. Three pairs of shoes, still waiting for steps that would never come.

But somehow, they didn’t look sad. They looked ready.

Harold nodded to them. “You did your part,” he said softly. “Now I’ll do mine.”

He leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and let memory take him down an old dirt road where the sun was setting, and the boots still fit just right. Because in the end, shoes aren’t worth much to a person without feet, unless that person remembers where they’ve walked.

And Harold, well, he remembered just fine.