The Shoes

“Not this pair,” I said to my mom.

“You’ve already tried on so many shoes, Jane! Only a few more. We have to get home for dinner.”

It was December 6, 1941, a day before my concert. I signed up for the school choir in my senior year of high school because I wanted to make my hobby of singing much more than it already was. It would be virtually impossible for me to sing for a living in Aiea, Honolulu, Hawaii. My big chance was the solo I had and wearing my normal displeasing clothes was not an option. My mom and I had been working long hours to pay for a dress and shoes. I had a perfect red dress that went down to my knees and complimented my black wavy hair, dark brown eyes, and soft brown skin. There was a long white lace around the waist and plenty of sparkles to help me stand out. I wanted a pair of shoes with the same personality.

Finally, I had found a good pair. They were red, the same exact color as my dress. The heels made me seem slightly more than average height. There were no sparkles but I didn’t care, they still looked beautiful. I smiled at my mom and hugged her so tight I couldn’t breathe.

"Thank you!” I said to her as we walked over and paid for the shoes. Now I was ready for this concert and to show everyone what I can do. We walked home that day to show my father and grandmother. They were both in awe of how beautiful my dress and shoes were.

"So lovely, Jane!” Grandmother cheered.

”Those are very pretty. I’m so proud of you,” my dad told me. He was still in his navy coat.

"Are you sure you can come to my concert?” I asked him. Whenever I did any activities that were important to me he was always busy.

"I’m sure,” he told me. I hugged him and decided I should go to sleep. I told them all that I loved them and went to my room.

I woke up to a loud noise. I got up and walked into the kitchen. My mom had been in the middle of making breakfast and I noticed she had run to the front door. She was standing there for a while in silence. I had so many questions I wanted to ask her but before I could say anything she ran inside, shut the door, and grabbed my wrist.

"Go get grandma,” she said in a serious voice.

I woke Grandmother up and helped her to the kitchen. Mom was blowing out candles frantically as loud noises continuously shook the ground.

"Get on the ground!” she ordered us.

"What was that?” I asked.

Mom was quiet for a minute until she finally answered very quietly, "A bomb.”

I looked at her in horror and so did Grandma. We couldn’t believe what she just said. I thought for a few minutes until reality hit me.

"Where’s Dad?”

“He was called to the harbor earlier.” Mom replied. That meant we had no way of knowing where he was or if he was okay. We all laid there wondering if he was okay as the noises got louder and softer.

"Where are the bombs coming from?” Grandma asked.

"The sky,” Mom replied. We stayed there for what felt like days until the noises stopped. We waited a little longer to make sure. Mom quietly got up and looked out a window. Our house was decently far from the naval base but she had seen the smoke.

"I don’t see any planes,” she assured us.

I sat up and sighed. I refused to think about the concert. We stayed there a few hours and my mom went to see if they needed nurses. I stayed home with Grandma while Mom left. She didn’t come home until very late at night. When she walked into the house she was holding back tears.

"What’s wrong?” Grandma asked.

"He’s missing.”

It is now Christmas 2001. I feel as though I have conquered life. I struggled through severe depression after The Bombing of Pearl Harbor. My Grandma passed away in 1942 and it was just me and my mom. We had many ceremonies for Dad and Grandma after that. My mom lived to see me get married to another writer. We have family holidays and I’m proud of where I am. I didn’t live my dream but I lived my life and I’m thankful for the opportunities I was introduced to. I’ve recently found these shoes and they don’t upset me. I’m extremely happy about the path my life turned to after my choice was no longer open. I’m retired and 77-years-old. I still write stories to feed my imagination. I read my family my story and finally wore my shoes. They still fit. I know they’re the same shoes that I bought December 6, 1941, but they look so much prettier now.