My Cardboard Balcony

Shoes for the Panhandler by Belinda Roddie Cutting the price tag off a brand new pair of loafers recently bought at the nearest department store, I left the box beside a panhandler with greasy brown hair and fingerless gloves, her purpling toes protruding one by one from aging sneakers with tongues that couldn't taste anymore and heels that had given out sooner than the soles. "I need food and money," she moaned to me, shaking a chipped coffee mug of loose, meager change. But as I walked away, I caught her stripping away her old, terminally ill shoes and sidling her blistered feet into my freshly purchased gifts, sturdy leather enveloping her flesh like a mother's hug, holding the last scraps of her humanity in place.

The natives hadn't taken too kindly to the professor's words, so he stayed in his room for most of the day and didn't say anything unless it was a request for cookies or tea. I, on the other hand, sat down with a good gaggle of the town's residents, laughing as one of the children poked at my metal knee. "What happened to your real knee?" she asked, and I smiled. "Let's just say I sacrificed it for a friend," I replied.