Anthony sat on the edge of the couch, nervous knees bouncing. Leo placed the shoes on the kitchen table, beside the Kiwi can and cloth. The shoes weren’t just scuffed—they were tired. The leather dull, the laces frayed, the toe flattened like it had carried too much weight for too long. Leo knew the feeling.
“These your father’s Sunday shoes?” Leo asked.
Anthony nodded. “He wore ’em to my baptism. Mom said he never got another pair.”
Leo turned the shoes over in his hands. The leather was dry. Thirsty. The heels had worn to an angle that told a story—of waiting in lines, of pacing kitchen tiles at night, of walking the city in search of work that never quite showed up.
Leo opened the can of polish. The wax had hardened into a disk like black marble. He took a rag, dipped it in warm water, softened the edges, and began the ritual. Anthony watched silently.
“You ever shine shoes?” Leo asked.
Anthony shook his head. “My mom wipes ours down with baby wipes.”
Leo chuckled, a deep sound, like a furnace coming back to life. “That ain’t the same.”
They worked together. Leo guided the boy’s small hands—how to dab, how to circle slow, how to let the leather breathe. He showed him the brush, the bristle angle, the wrist motion. And finally, the cloth—snapping it taught, buffing until a dull gleam rose like memory from the skin.
They didn’t talk much. The work had its own language. But something passed between them—respect, maybe. Or understanding.
When they were done, the shoes didn’t look new. They looked proud. Honest. Like they’d been seen and made ready again.
Leo handed them over carefully. “Tell your father he walks in with these tomorrow, he’s already halfway there.”
Anthony’s mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. But not far off. “Thanks, Mr. Leo.”
Leo reached into a drawer and pulled out a small wooden box, the kind old men keep cufflinks in. He opened it and took out a shoelace. Just one. Worn, but strong.
“My father gave me this the day I shipped out. I carried it through ‘Nam in my boot. Lost the other, but this one held.” He placed it in the boy’s hand. “Give this to your dad. Tell him it’s for luck.”
Anthony looked down at the lace like it was gold. “You sure?”
“I’m sure.”
When the door closed behind him, Leo sat down, staring at the empty table. For a long time, he didn’t move.
Later that night, he took out his own shoes, polished them slowly. Not for church. Not for show. Just because. Some rituals, he thought, keep you upright when the world bends.
He fell asleep in his recliner, the cloth still in his lap, the smell of Kiwi hanging in the air like incense in an old cathedral.
