Sitting to my right,
he put them on the couch, to his right.

From the top box,
he lifted his burgundy
wing-tip Bostonians into the air.
He held them straight out in his hand
and said,

These are my good shoes.
I use them only for weddings,
holidays, Mass on Sunday, and
to take your mother dancing.

He set them on the floor in front of him.

Lifting the other box to his lap,
he removed the lid.
A royal blue cloth covered the contents.
Easing his hand beneath, he pulled out
a second pair.

These are the shoes you picked out for your
graduation.  Not my taste,
but able-crafted work, and your mother
and I were pleased to purchase them for you.

He leaned forward and placed the shoes on the floor
next to his, and remained there, slightly bent, chin raised.
He looked beneath his glasses.  His mouth opened a slight smile,
but nothing came out, only air, slowly, a second later.

Then he sat up, stood up, walked
across the living room and foyer
into his study, quietly closing
the white wood door behind him.