That spring, when my daughter was five, it was drizzling one morning. I had her rain boots by the door — yellow ones with little ducks, the ones she picked out herself. She glanced at them, didn’t put them on. Instead, she pulled out her purple plastic sandals from last summer. They were already a little small, her toes almost touching the edge.
I said, “It’s raining. Your feet will get wet.” She said, “No they won’t.” I pointed outside. “Look, the ground is wet.” She looked out the window and said, “So what?” Then she sat down, put on the sandals, snapped the buckles, and stood up, looking at me.
I stood at the door for a moment. She had her backpack on, her raincoat zipped up, hood hanging down her back. I said, “Are you sure?” She said, “Yes.” I said, “Don’t cry if your feet get wet.” She said, “Okay.”
We walked to the car. She stepped on the wet cement, and the sandals splashed a little water. When she got in, she looked down at her feet. Her toes poked out just a bit, and cool rainwater ran over the straps. She didn’t say anything. She just pulled her feet back.
At school, the rain was still coming down, light but steady. She jumped out of her car seat and stepped right into a puddle in the parking lot. Water splashed up to her shins. She looked down, looked up, didn’t say a word, and walked inside. I sat in the car and watched her walk in, her blue raincoat standing out among all the kids in boots.
When I picked her up that afternoon, the rain had stopped. She came out with both sandals soaking wet, her toes a little red, but her face dry. She hadn’t cried. In the car, she took off both shoes and sat with her bare feet on the edge of the seat. I asked if she was cold. She said, “A little.” I turned the heat up.
At home, she changed into slippers and left the sandals by the door, soles still damp with grass clippings. I didn’t put them away. I left them there, toes pointing toward the door.
The next morning it didn’t rain. She took out the yellow rain boots from the shoe rack and put them on. She didn’t mention yesterday, and neither did I. But the purple sandals were still by the door, now dry, the grass clippings scattered on the floor. I nudged them together with my foot but didn’t sweep them up.
One day after school, she came home, saw the sandals, and crouched down to feel the soles. “Summer’s almost here,” she said. I said, “Almost.” She picked them up and put them back in the shoe rack.
She wore those sandals almost every day that summer. The soles got thin, and the purple plastic developed fine cracks. By fall, she’d outgrown them. I didn’t throw them away. I put them on the top shelf of the shoe rack.
Every time I open that rack and see those sandals, I remember that rainy morning. She sat by the door, slipped her feet into the sandals, snapped the buckles, and looked up at me.
I almost stopped her. But I didn’t.
