People polished shoes then, back when my mom bought my first pair. I thought they were so beautiful. The white against the black. Crisp and clean. I looked up at the salesman from Iverson’s Shoes. He could see that I wanted them to stay that way. Scared even to take my right foot down from the angled bench to touch the floor. Worried that his hands were clean as he checked the space for my big toe. Did I want to know how to keep them just like this, he asked. Yes, yes, of course, I shook my head. He stood from his bench and walked to the stand by the register. He pulled out a black polish and a white polish. I knew the shoes were already over our budget, but oh how I wanted that polish. I looked up at my mother, she waved the polish in. I let out a sigh of relief. What care I would take of these beautiful shoes! 

I stepped gingerly onto the bus that next day of school. Raised my knees so only the tips of my toes touched that tainted bus floor. I crossed my legs in each classroom. Watching the white and black dangle, almost dance beneath my knee. I placed them gently in my locker for gym class. Kept two steps behind anyone in the halls. Three days they lasted. Three glorious days of the certainty of black and white. It was on the busride home when I got distracted. Sitting behind me, she asked if I had the homework from social studies. I did. I turned in my seat to hand it to her. Leaving my left foot exposed, when Steve Brolin trampled down the aisle onto my whitest of white, leaving a brown skid mark from toe to saddle. 

I don’t remember breathing on the rest of that bus ride home. All I wanted was my mom. I wanted to apologize. I should have paid attention. I wanted her to fix it. Couldn’t she fix it? We could fix it. I sat by the back door of the house. Pleading for her to come home from work. Pleading for time to pass. Inching closer to the door, as if to make it happen. 

I had never polished shoes before. I held the Iverson’s bag in one hand and the shoe in my other. My “Please mom…” had changed to just “please…” The second hand of the kitchen clock finally cooperated and I heard the garage door rise. 

Somehow she deciphered through the tears and hiccups what needed to be done. She put newspaper on the kitchen table. Wiped my face with a tissue. Together we read the instructions. The first swipe didn’t cover it. I breathed in worry. Swiped again. I don’t know how many times we polished that shoe during the evening, she during the night. But I do know that when I woke up, her left hand was in my shoe, her right hand buffing with a brush. She smiled as she held them out. Brand new, she said. Brand new, I agreed. 

I haven’t thought of them in years. Then I saw them on the cover of the Paris Review. It sits on my desk as a reminder. Just beside the picture of my mom. Scuffed and weary from yesterday’s challenge, I smile and greet the day, I’m brand new! I’m brand new.