I wore a pair of black Oxford dress shoes for many years, but like a very old person whose time has come and whose bodily functions all give out at the same time, my shoes began to suddenly fall apart in Paris. Cracks appeared. Seams began to come loose. I caught glimpses of my light blue socks through the tiny holes like stars in a black sky.
This was not a tragedy (if you’re going to fall apart, you might as well do it in Paris.)
I could have tossed them in the trash, but they had put in long years of service and I thought they deserved a more noble end than could likely be found in a Parisian trashcan. As I passed the Paris Opera House, I thought, “Well, there. That’s a fine place for a final resting place.”
And so I left them.
And there, presumably, they remained…for a while. Au revoir à mes vieilles chaussures. Bonne chance, mes amis!
….I wonder where they are now.
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