My Son’s Shoes

I set out to toss the day's excess,
But found my shoes buried beneath youthful pairs,
For in they'd trooped, a boisterous, merry mess,
A gang of teens, my son's jovial comrades.

So, I contemplated donning his worn trainers.
But the moment I slipped them on, a truth unfurled,
These shoes, a room for more than just containers,
Two cavernous spaces, dwarfing my universe.

As though my feet in gothic halls were ensconced,
Engulfed by vastness, their grandeur untamed,
I stood entranced, in memories, I nestled,
Recalling when my womb his essence claimed.

Back then, my belly cradled all of him,
His toes, his frame, his perfect face,
And now, his strides exceed my mere trim,
A path he paves, a destined, unique space.

Time, heavy as a thousand suns combined,
Bends mothers, smaller than the ones they bore,
While children, in their growth, outstrip the mind,
And shoes attest to time's relentless chore.

The poem was first published as editor's choice in "Red Room," an online poetry forum in New York,
in 2007. This is a revised version.

Dilruba Z. Ara is the author of internationally acclaimed novels A List of Offences and Blame. Ara's stories and poems–published in many international anthologies–are studied at universities across the world. She has translated Selected Stories of Shahed Ali into English, A List of Offences into Swedish and some of Sweden's Pippi Longstocking stories into Bengali. She lives in Lund, Sweden. To know more about her visit her website www.dilrubazara.com.