They’re tucked in the back of the closet now, a pair of black oxfords with soles worn smooth as river stones. I bought them for those Friday night swing lessons we took in our thirties, back when our knees didn't creak and our energy felt bottomless. I remember the heat of the community center hall, the scratchy records playing Glenn Miller, and the way we'd spin into each other's arms, your skirts and my jacket tails flaring out. Those shoes saw us through wedding receptions, gala fundraisers, and the occasional kitchen-floor slow dance when the kids were finally asleep. They carry the scuffs of a thousand missteps and the polish of a thousand celebrations. When I hold the cold leather that feels so smooth it's almost oily, I can almost hear the bass line of a jazz band and feel the rhythmic slide-and-tap against the floor. We don't dance as much as we used to, but those shoes are proof that for a while, we were perfectly in sync, floating just an inch above the world.
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