My Mocs

My husband calls these my "ugly Hiawatha mocs." I call them my super comfy, retro; make me think of my mom, Hiawatha mocs. My mom bought these mocs in 1977. She had me two years later; she was 20. For the entirety of my childhood, she wore these around the house on cold, rainy days.
Friday will be the 2nd anniversary of her death. She died at 12:30am on the 21st; She was 46. My birthday ended at 11:59pm on the 20th. I was 26.
I took care of her that last year, sharing stories, sharing tears and laughter. I fed her, bathed her, dressed her, and changed her, just as she did for me when I was her baby. This was the most difficult year of my life, and my marriage, but I am so thankful to have been able to be there.
My mother was a very petite, very beautiful woman. She had style, she had class, and she had clothes. Boxes upon boxes of beautiful clothes. In her final months, she spent her days distributing her wardrobe. She had all the important women in her life come over, and together they would go through her closet. She, lying in her bed, pale and weak, would direct the women on which clothes fit them best, down to the shoes. Once they had tried everything on, she would give them her clothes.
I couldn’t wear anything from her closet, as we weren’t the same size. But I could wear these mocs, and so she gave them to me. They lace up like high-tops and have leather fringe down the sides. They're ratty, and old, and there's a hole in the toe. But every time I look down at my feet on a cold, rainy day, I see my sock peeping through, and I remember my mom. I remember her snuggled up on the couch, a bowl of popcorn on her lap, a blanket over her legs, her mocs peeking out. We’d be watching a movie together, and she would be laughing. Her laugh would fill the room, and fill my heart with joy.
I can’t hear her laugh anymore, and there’s a piece of me that died with her. But whenever I wear these ratty old mocs, I think of my mom, and I smile.