A Pair of Shoes

A pair of shoes. All scuffed and beaten up. Nothing special really. But let me tell you, they can mean so much more.
See, I was on my way to work. I always walk. It’s healthier. And who wants to attempt to drive with gas prices and all the traffic? So I walk.
I follow the same route to work everyday. So I should know it like the back of my hand, right? Well, as a matter of fact I do. Or did. You see, on this particular day in question, there was a slight difference. No one else noticed it. But I did. And it changed my life. Profoundly.
As I was crossing 69th street (illegally, I should add), I saw them. Just sitting there. Placed there as if the person wearing them just floated up and away. Normally, shoes are thrown out. You know what I mean, right? They usually end up on their side as if thrown from a car or window or wherever. But these were not. They were placed. One on top of the other. As if a ballerina had been doing a plie and just never came back down into her shoes.

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