Green Slippers

We stayed up late at night talking about the Aurora Borealis. Then you mentioned
a pair of green slippers you wanted but couldn’t afford to buy, and the next morning,
like magic, they showed up in your closet.  

You couldn’t stop smiling or wearing them: out on late night trips for ice cream, to get the paper in the morning, doing the recycling. They grew old and tattered and faded and filled with holes within months,

but you wore them for the next three years until we got that Jack Russell Terrier puppy who demolished the left foot one, and we had to take the puppy to the vet to get his stomach pumped or whatever vets do to retrieve eaten slippers.  

That vet bill was almost as much as our mortgage payment, but you were so happy
the puppy was OK you didn’t mind that we had to cancel our trip to see the Northern Lights due to lack of funds.  

You kept wearing the right foot slipper with a wool sock on your left foot so you
could still keep it warm. I thought it odd, but I loved you so instead of commenting negatively I woke up early

and made you cinnamon buns for breakfast. It wasn’t anything too special. I just made the prepackaged kind that you pop onto a baking sheet and heat for thirty minutes
and spread with prepackaged icing,

but you loved them and said it was the best breakfast you had eaten in ages and it reminded you of Christmas. They reminded me of Christmas too, but you wrapped me into your arms then, and I got lost in my words,

and you said not to worry – we could see the Aurora Borealis next year and maybe even bring the new pup Slip along, if we could car train him quickly enough.


* Stephanie
Leal is a performance poet from the USA. She completed the MA in Creative
Writing at the University of East Anglia in 2007 and currently lives in
Norwich, England, where she is now reading for a PhD in philosophy. She is an active member of the Norwich spoken word scene and has her next show in the city on Sunday 29 March.