Hand-me-Downs

Writer: Iqra Hunzai

I have new shoes for you.

And there’s less food to eat. 

She twitches a smile, 

Her hands point down the street.

Three hand-me-down pairs on the floor.

A baby, a woman and a man. 

“Shoes for you and you and you.”

She smiles again, sour-and-sweet. 

Shadows slip past my walls since then. 

A woman’s laugh, a man’s deep bass. 

A crawling child on all fours

Scuttling, creaking at my door

I find food half-eaten, golden hair.

Fingers trailing on my arm and neck.

I sleep to the sound of their dreams.

Their whispers settle in my chest. 

She hums, “They’re growing fast,”

Though none of us have grown.

The smallest shoes are muddied now.

She leaves them by my own. 

“I have new shoes for you.”

This time I know they’re mine.

She smiles, sour-and-sweet again.

I step into the line.