Buried in Her Feragamo Shoes


My mother all 300 plus pounds of her was
buried in her Feragamo shoes...

Those mary jane's with the bow at the toe...
but for months she was kept in a cooler at the funeral parlor...
because my sister was sure dad would whither and die from grief
soon after, and then it would save on the burial costs
since the two could be taken in their coffins together
in a hurst to the frozen graveyard in Minnesota the state
where their love story began almost 70 years ago,
where they met as college kids
at a dance my mom was helping host....
her dark hair falling in curls
on a hot sultry night in June
leaning against the wall, bored, not wanting to be there was
asked by my gap toothed, gangly tall, newly discharged
Battle of the Bulge veteran and soon to be dad....
he asked my mom to dance. She refused, at first, then danced
with the farm boy, shyly awkward and desperate for this
nursing student with the confident attitude
indifferent to his quiet request. Her yes, became the start....
of a smitten farm boy and his small town Minnesota girl who
loved designer clothes and the Feragamo shoes she wanted to
be buried in, next to my dad....the gangly guy
home from the war, looking for someone to start a life with.

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