Saturday Morning Shoe Shine

My grandfather shined shoes outside the train station in Philadelphia for thirty-one years. When I was little, he'd let me sit on the little stool next to him on Saturdays and hand him the brushes.

He knew every regular. The lawyer who wanted his oxfords "like mirrors." The musician who came in sneakers just to talk. A young woman who'd just gotten her first job and wanted her only pair of heels to look perfect for her first day; he refused to let her pay.

This spring, I found his old shoeshine box in my mother's basement. The tins of polish still smelled the same. I sat down on the back steps and shined every pair of shoes in our house, the way he showed me, little circles, patient.

My teenage son wandered out and asked what I was doing. I handed him a brush. We did the last pair together.