This last Saturday, we staged a long-overdue cleaning of Carrie’s closet.

We have lived in our home for nearly 38 years, and over time things accumulate. Almost nothing in that closet is just clothing. They are memories as much as material. And memories are hard to throw away. There is a sense of finality to it. Over years, carefully preserved, the closet became almost impenetrable.

The work was hard, physically and emotionally. Nearly five decades of marriage had produced a bewildering quantity of shoes, each tied to a time in our lives. Hard to discard. Still, they had to go.

More than 100 boxes were pulled out and assessed. What to keep. What to donate. What was too worn. In the end, about 25 pairs went to donation. Roughly 30 others, used beyond saving, had to be discarded.

I smashed the boxes for recycling, gathered the loose shoes, carried them outside, lifted the trash bin lid, and dumped them in.

They did not land neatly, as they had lived for decades in Carrie’s carefully ordered closet.

Heels caught sideways. Soles faced upward. Laces tangled. Mismatched. Random. Unpaired.

And there they were. So many shoes. So much living consumed. Now lifeless, piled in the trash.

Staring down into that bin, my stomach dropped with reflex memory.

If you have ever seen the photographs, stood in the museums, or absorbed the history, you know exactly what a pile of shoes summons. Jewish shoes from the pogroms.........

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