MILES IN HER SHOES

Today I will wear her shoes. The black, strappy sandals that were a gift from a woman I’ve never met. Someone I’ll never be able to thank, because she was taking what were surely her last breaths as her best friend quietly took the shopping bag from her hands. I’ve only worn them three times before: once the day I received them, the other two times on the anniversary of that day. The day that began like any other, but which before its end had changed the world--and me--forever.
Time will, eventually, erode other impressions from that day, but I’ll never forget the low rumble of the first plane’s impact. If it would have hit five minutes later, I wouldn’t have needed someone else’s shoes. I also might have lost so much more. Just five minutes more and I would have put on my shoes, picked up my briefcase, and walked down to the conference I was supposed to be attending on the first floor of the World Trade Center. Just five minutes more and the man that I loved would have been headed to the rooftop, to shoot panoramic photographs of the city.
Five minutes. But the plane didn’t wait, and neither did we. The moment we realized we were under attack, we fled. Neither of us stopped to put on our shoes, neither of us grabbed our wallets, or our cell phones, or anything other than each other’s hands. In that moment, we didn’t want those particular things. We just wanted to live.
On any given day, the streets of Manhattan to a shoeless soul are hazardous. On that day, they were virtually impassable. I’m often asked if I saw the second plane hit, or if I witnessed the desperate jumpers. Truthfully, most of what I saw that day was the pavement, as I carefully navigated where to place my bare feet. No amount of caution, however, could have prevented the damage from the glass that did, eventually, become deeply embedded into the tender skin of my soles.
I only forgot about my feet when the streets became blanketed in that cloud of dust and I could no longer breathe. That moment, when day became night, superseded all others in its terror. That was the moment I believed I would die.
Hours later (it could have been minutes, it felt like days) I was handed the shoes. The woman who handed them to me had noticed my shredded pantyhose, the trail of blood as I walked into the ferry office where I finally found shelter. Though she spoke directly to me, her words did not register. It was only later, when the feelings of panic had faded to a dull soundtrack for the surreal movie in my mind, that I found out what she had said. “She said her friend probably didn’t make it,” my boyfriend told me. “She’d been hit in the head by some debris, and had to be taken away in an ambulance.” He leaned in towards me and whispered, “She said her head looked like it split open right there.” I nodded, the image too gruesome for me to contemplate for long. I still wasn’t sure how she had ended up with her friend’s sandals, but I didn’t have the energy to ask. Numbly, I sat on one of the chairs in the waiting area, still holding the shoes. Sam and Libby. Somewhere I had the thought that this was a good brand. “I guess I should try these on,” I may have said aloud. First, I went to the restroom and tried to wash my feet in one of the basins. I was covered from head to toe in dust, but nevertheless I washed my feet with extreme care. Almost like a ceremony. I walked back out into the waiting area, sat down, and tried on a shoe. It was exactly my size. In that moment, wearing a dead woman’s shoe, I felt the faint stirrings of hope in my heart. “I’m going to make it,” I thought to myself. Silently, I slipped on the other shoe.
I walked miles that day in her shoes. I wore them aboard the ferry that took us to Staten Island. Across the glass-littered Bayonne Bridge to New Jersey. Once there, for blocks and blocks as we sought a safe haven. By the time we finally found shelter, at nine o’clock that night, the straps of the sandals had sliced into the tops of my feet. The scars from the straps lasted longer than the ones from the glass, and almost as long as the ones on my heart.
Since the day I first held them, I have moved four times. The shoes have always accompanied me, packed inside of a box with other things I never use, but can’t seem to let go of. I sold most of my possessions to travel the globe, from Central America to Africa, but the shoes remain my one sure thing, my anchor. Though I have only actually worn them three times, I’ve always known where to find them.
Today, for no special reason, I will wear her shoes again, and I will remember. I will remember that unlike the woman who first wore them, I am alive, and I will silently give thanks. I will walk past the people engaged in angry conversations on their cell phones. Past the blaring horns and endless traffic. Past the hurried, stressed masses on their way to an appointment for which they can’t be late, perhaps only with their television. Past others “killing time,” as if it doesn’t die fast enough on its own. Past the newsstands overflowing with stories of atrocities, vengeance, and hate. Past the young and disillusioned; the old and bitter. Past those who have forgotten.
Today I will wear her shoes, and I will remember: I am alive.