The Squeak.
The Squeak.
Strolling along, pleased with my new shoes.
Then, the squeak.
A squeaky shoe is amusing. It mirrors your stride, as if followed by a clown. But the only clown was I.
The squeak passed back and forth between my shoes with each step. A double act. A squeaky duet to increase the whimsy of my stride. To increase my ignominy.
Little would rid myself of this squeak, so I learned a little humility. To not take my self too seriously. I walked in these squeaky shoes and accepted the butt of the joke.
After many weeks of squeaky steps, I passed a gentleman in shining new shoes. My squeak ceased. Gone as quickly as it arrived.
This gentleman stopped suddenly and tested his stride. His shoes had sprung a squeak.
Perhaps there is only one squeak in the world, jumping from shoe to shoe, to teach us each a lesson.
