The first crack of dawn, a sliver of bruised purple and angry orange slicing through the grimy Chicago sky, always found Leo a boy, then a man, now an old man, with a can of Kiwi polish in his hand.
It wasn’t a chore, not ever. It was a sacrament, a silent prayer whispered with brush and cloth, a ritual passed down from his old man, who’d learned it from his old man, straight out of the old country, though the specifics of that land had long since blurred into the hardscrabble reality of the American Midwest.
He remembered Sundays, sharp as a new razor.
The smell of coffee brewing, the faint scent of his mother’s lilac perfume, and the overwhelming, comforting tang of shoe polish.
His father, a man whose hands were perpetually stained with grease from the steel mill, would lay out the Sunday best—his own worn but proud oxfords, his mother’s sensible pumps, his older sister’s slightly scuffed Mary Janes, and even his own clunky school shoes.
“Respect, Leo,” his father would grunt, not looking up from the newspaper, but the words were hammered into the boy’s soul, solid as the steel his father worked.
“You clean what carries you. You honor the ground you walk on, and the people who walk it with you.”
Leo, barely tall enough to see over the kitchen table, would perch on a stool, the shoe resting on a folded newspaper, a canvas of yesterday’s news.
He’d dig his small fingers into the waxy blackness of the polish, the cold, firm resistance a promise of shine. He’d apply it in slow, deliberate circles, watching the dull leather absorb the richness.
Then the brush, stiff bristles scraping away the excess, building a low sheen.
And finally, the cloth—an old piece of his father’s undershirt, soft from countless washes—snapping against the leather, a rhythmic pop-pop-pop that echoed the beating of his own young heart.
Each snap was a declaration, a polish, a promise. The shoes weren’t just clean; they were transformed, ready to carry their wearers with dignity to church, to visit relatives, to face the world with a quiet, unyielding pride.
That was the fifties, a time when a man’s word was his bond, and a clean pair of shoes spoke volumes about the man.
The neighborhood was a patchwork of brick and stoop, every family a story, every door a welcome. Kids played stickball in the street until the streetlights hummed on, and mothers called them in with voices that carried across three yards.
The fathers, tired from the week’s labor, would sit on porches, nursing a beer, their faces etched with the honest weariness of men who built things with their hands.
They didn’t talk much about feelings, not directly, but the way they tipped their hats, the firm handshake, the shared silence—that was their language.
And the shoes, always the shoes, gleaming under the Sunday sun, were part of that unspoken code.
He carried that ritual through the turbulent sixties, the polish a quiet defiance against the chaos.
He shined his combat boots before shipping out to Vietnam, the black wax a stark contrast to the dust and grime he’d soon know.
He shined them again when he came home, the shine a small, personal victory against the shadows that clung to him.
The world was changing, rushing headlong into a future that seemed to forget the lessons of the past.
Factories closed, neighborhoods shifted, and the handshake began to lose its weight. But the shoes remained.
He taught his own son, Michael, the art of the shine. Michael, all gangly limbs and restless energy, preferred the roar of a muscle car engine to the quiet snap of a polishing cloth.
He tolerated the ritual, did it out of respect for his old man, but Leo could see the impatience in his eyes, the longing for the quick fix, the easy answer.
It wasn’t Michael’s fault; the world had sped up, demanded instant gratification. The dignity of slow, meticulous work was being replaced by the efficiency of machines, the cold logic of algorithms.
A man’s worth was no longer measured by the calluses on his hands or the shine on his shoes, but by the numbers on a screen, the speed of his internet connection.
Now, sixty years later, the ritual persists, a stubborn ember glowing in the twilight of his life. His hands, gnarled with age and a lifetime of labor, still move with the practiced grace of a master craftsman.
The smell of Kiwi polish still fills his small den, a potent elixir of memory. His wife, bless her soul, passed two winters ago, but her sensible pumps still sit on the mat, and he still gives them a gentle buff, a whisper of a shine, just for her.
His grandchildren, when they visit, look at him with a mixture of curiosity and bemusement. They live in a world of sneakers and screens, where shoes are disposable, and respect is a hashtag.
They don’t understand the quiet power of the ritual, the history embedded in each stroke of the brush, the legacy polished into every gleam.
They ask why he bothers, why he doesn’t just buy new shoes, or use a spray. He smiles, a little sadly, a little proudly. How do you explain the soul of a thing to a generation that only sees its surface?
He sits on his worn stool, the morning light filtering through the lace curtains, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air. His own church shoes, worn but not weary, rest on the newspaper.
He applies the polish, the familiar scent a balm to his old heart. He brushes, then snaps the cloth against the leather, a soft, rhythmic pop-pop-pop.
It’s not just about clean shoes anymore. It’s about remembering, about holding onto a piece of a world that valued patience, perseverance, and the quiet dignity of a job done right.
It’s about honoring the journey, the struggles, the triumphs, and the countless steps that have brought him to this very moment.
The shoes gleam, a mirror reflecting the light, reflecting a lifetime.
And as he slips them on, ready to walk into another Sunday, he knows, with a certainty that settles deep in his bones, that some things, some truths, are meant to be carried forward, one polished step at a time.
The knock came just as Leo was snapping the cloth one last time across the cap toe. Three sharp raps against the wood, impatient, unfamiliar. He frowned. Nobody knocked like that anymore. Family used the back door, neighbors didn’t bother, and solicitors—well, there hadn’t been one since they closed the corner hardware store.
He stood slowly, knees creaking like floorboards in winter, and shuffled to the door. When he opened it, the wind carried in a gust of city grime and something else—urgency. On the stoop stood a boy. Maybe twelve. Hair too long, hoodie too big. Eyes the color of alley slate, darting, unsure.
“Are you Leo?” the boy asked.
Leo nodded, hand still on the knob.
“My name’s Anthony. My dad—he said to come here. He said you could help.”
Leo blinked. “Help?”
Anthony looked down at the shoes in his hands—beat-up black dress shoes, cracked across the sides, the sole of one gaping like a wound. “He has a job interview. Tomorrow. He’s been outta work awhile. Mom says we’re gonna lose the apartment if he doesn’t get it.”
Leo took the shoes gently, reverently, as if they were something sacred. “Come inside.”
“Come inside,” Leo said. The boy hesitated, one foot still on the stoop.
“Are you sure?”
“You honor the ground you walk on,” Leo murmured, half to himself, half to a ghost. “Let’s get to work.”
