Shoes

I don't like shoe shopping. It takes a long time and usually after the first ten minutes all the shoes start looking the same to me.
As a trained communicator, I've developed the habit of putting myself in other people's shoes to see their real intentions in order to drive effective dialogue forward. It's scary when the shoes are exactly the same size as mine but the road they have to tread on is paved with tears.
Cancer is so wretched. Wretched, wretched; wretched is the only word that comes to my mind to describe this morbidly fascinating condition as I hear my friend describe her father's progress. Wretched, that it dares rob people of the height of their lives, the chance to walk their daughter down the aisle, the time to learn the Truth. Wretched, that it soils her shoes with fear, anxiety, loss so much earlier than when she was supposed to start preparing for them.
Before death, all men are equal. Indeed. What difference is there between slippers and gum boots when the flood has risen to your chest?
Her shoes are the same size as mine. Yet what if I was wearing them at this very moment? It hit way too close to home. I would rather we both stay barefooted.
Before life, all men are equal, too. That's all we can do now, I guess, to fight for the hope that will bring equality about in this way. That's all we could've ever done to begin with.
When this passes, my friend would need new shoes. Before she goes shopping for new ones, I'll take her for a stroll on the beach, barefoot in the sand. Please, please help her stay on her feet until then.