In her final days, my mother became obsessed with the idea of buying me new shoes.

I've always been hard on footwear. As a toddler, I was tightly laced into orthopaedic shoes held together by a short metal bar in the hope of correcting my tendency to turn my feet inward as I walked. It didn't take, and I continue to bear my weight on the outer rims of my feet - fine for flats, but it doesn't bode well for heels of any kind, which become worn at an angle until it's impossible to maintain balance. I've sprained my right ankle three times wearing the same pair of black pumps with sloped heels, shoes that rest somewhere in the back of my closet to this day. I'm sorry to say, if I'm called for a job interview tomorrow, I'll probably dig them out and wear them.

Mom loved shoes - high heels, low heels, no heels, lace-up, open-toed,... She had three pairs for every occasion and always found a reason to buy more. When her closet became full, she bought hanging shoe bags that soon covered every door on the second floor of our home. Each night, I'd watch her sit on a low bench at the foot of her bed, polishing the next day's pair until they shone. I often wondered why she bothered. Perhaps her preoccupation with beautiful shoes stemmed from a lackluster life as a divorced mother of four, working as a secretary to make ends meet - a small way to feel glamorous and individual. Maybe it resulted from an impoverished childhood, when the only pair of "new" shoes came straight off the feet of an older sister. Both theories sadden me still.

Mom couldn't understand my disinterest in what I wore on my feet, and never can I recall leaving the house without seeing that disapproving look as her eyes swept over my clothes to my feet, taking in whatever shabby pair I'd thrown on in haste. It's not that I didn't like cool shoes - I did and still do, but I could never see the point in spending money on shoes I knew wouldn't last longer than a few months. I tried to explain this to her, but her response was always the same: "You must step lightly!" "Hold your ankles firm!" and my personal favorite, "A good pair of shoes will get you through anything!"

"Pick out a couple of pairs. I'll buy them for you." She sat wrapped in a blanket on the sofa, waving a mail order catalog in my direction. Various pill bottles and aspirators lay scattered on the coffee table before her.

"I don't need shoes, Mom," I answered, tucking my battered work heels out of sight as

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