A shorty story.
You graciously gave thanks for the ‘laborious task’ ahead, tending to your feet.
The feet of my father, who was once a little boy and as I massaged cream into your skin with you watching on, knowing the stories that you had told me, I knew where these feet had been.
A child of seven that stood barefoot in snow as icy winds buffeted your tender frame. Courageously you chopped the wood, your pockets sewn, so hands could not be warmed. This your fathers orders – the family to whom you belonged and they sat beside the fire, whilst you shivered all alone.
These feet nightly climbed the stairs, plate held in your lap, eating your meal in silence, as you watched your ‘family’ below who sat on chairs and laughed.
These feet, could have walked the hallways of Universities, the teachers pleaded, you with a photographic memory. A waste of money, unnecessary, your step-mother’s thoughts, you were never given the chance.
With these feet you stood firm, the loaded gun twice held against your head, but you weren’t meant to leave this earth just yet.
These feet were forced to walk through ruins, carrying an empty pale, picking up dismembered parts of those you knew, those who were your friends.
These feet carried you in your escape, from the country of your birth. Crossing mountains, hiding, trudging through wintry forests without food for many days and nights.
These feet brought you here, a new life. Your bride to be in hand, building a house with no carpentry skills for the family you knew would one day come.
They ran and played when we were small, to then walk me down the aisle.
These feet, are older now, they hold your frail body.
These feet I want to tend, they are not a ‘laborious chore’
So let me do this out of love for you, now and forever more.
Since living at my ‘penguins’ home, I find the need to write more about them these last few days.
Pop escaped from Czechoslavakia.