The shoemaker holds a small shoe in his weathered hands. The shoe, pale pink in a color made paler from constant use through the dust and dirt of the city, is broken. The sole has come away from the bow-topped upper. The shoemaker picks up his curved silver needle and begins to sew. In and out, in and out through the hard, stiff sole and up into the delicate satin. He is bringing the shoe back to life, one stitch at a time.
A small boy looks on at the shoemaker, his eyes fixed on the shoe with the pert bow. His face has a look of concentration upon it, a tiny furrow creases his brow. His whole life seems to hang in the balance of the tiny shoe which, for now, is nestled safely in the capable hands of the shoemaker.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
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