A Pair of Shoes

His shoes were worn out, with holes in the bottom and on the sides. It was warm enough, so I gave him my old sandals. I didn’t wear them, and he just needed to cover the bottom of his feet until we got a more permanent solution anyway. We decided to go to the beach, they have shops with cheap goods down there. When we got there I saw the name of the boardwalk. Ocean Boardwalk. What a lame name. As we walked he told me about his family. About how he wishes they had more money. I felt sorry for him, but I needed get him some shoes. I walked with him and we found the shop. It had a weird, light blue door. We walked in and he started to try on the shoes. That’s when I noticed the tattoos. They were names.

                When he got his shoes and I paid for them I asked about the names. They were his brothers and sisters names, ones who died. He lived in an orphanage, the kids were his family. He was never adopted so he works at the orphanage for food and board. Many of the other kids who weren’t adopted killed themselves. So he took it upon himself to permanently mark his body with their names, so they’d never be abandoned again. It struck me, just then. He was so kind, so sincere. Doing all he could to help and he didn’t even own a pair of shoes. All he had were the clothes on his back, a bed at an orphanage, and homemade tattoos.