Antsying about for something to do,
you come upon my shoes,
put your feet in them,
stand and grin, then waddle
to the sofa, where I am.
It is an ancient ritual, isn't it,
this taking measure,
this stepping into our parents' shoes?
You plop yourself down next to me,
heft those shoes up
and lay them in my lap.
I look at your impish grin
seeing myself as I see you,
doing the best I can in the shoes
I have put on,
lumbering around, left foot, then right,
so clever, so filled with delight.