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Sometimes the sun is able to defeat me in the mornings. Whenever I lay, barely awake, in my cocoon of warm blankets, the rays of light peer into my room and I huddle beneath my cover to hold onto a few more minutes of sleep. However, most mornings I am able to beat the racing sun, just in time to see the black night sky melt away and become replaced with a bright golden blush. On those mornings, I fumble in the dark for my blood orange Nike shoes and go for a run. The air is usually silent and chilly but I feel the warmth of my body as I run with the sun cheering me on. After my runs I go home and shower away my morning victory. Then, I face a new dilemma. I open my closet door and see an army of shoes lined up on each side of the closet. I will admit, I have a problem. No reasonable person requires this many shoes but maybe I am not a reasonable person. I tower over my numerous Nike shoes, some for leisure, others for running. I decide against comfort and my eyes glance over to my party shoes. I have black over-the-knee boots and red strappy heels and nude pumps and even a pair of glittery silver stiletto heels. I look at these shoes longingly but know better than to wear my party shoes for a long day at work. I check the weather on my phone for some help and see it will be sunny and warm, so I look to my flats and sandals. I spot a pair of beige loafer flats that should have seemed obvious from the moment I opened my closet door. I slide them on as a nostalgic smile stretches over my lips. I had bought them the moment I saw them at Nordstrom simply because they reminded me of the first pair of shoes that sparked my obsession. I must have been around seven years old when I spotted the bright red ballerina flats on display. I had begged my mom for them but she preferred functionality and comfort over style and preference. I begged her to at least let me try them on and when I did, the store melted away. I imagined myself on a giant stage with the spotlight directly on me as I leapt and galloped all over the store. I came back to reality when I heard a small laugh. I looked behind me and it was my mom. Rather than scolding me for making a scene, she had tearful eyes and a small smile on her face. We left the store with those beautiful crimson red flats. After that, I could not stop looking at people’s shoes. It felt so personal, almost as if their shoes were telling me a story. My high school teacher wore an old pair of beaten white converse with a coffee stain on its left shoe. My best friend always wore white and brown Birkenstocks, even in the winter which she paired with colorful fuzzy socks. I, on the other hand, would prefer a different pair every day of the week. I glance at my bedroom mirror with satisfaction as I go over my my outfit. I had a pair of dark blue jeans on and a bold red blouse matching my red stained lips. I use a natural eyeshadow palette creating a hazy nude-brown look. Finally, I pull my burgundy hair back for a messy ponytail. Before I go, I check out my matte beige flats one last time and gleefully walk out the door. As I make my way down to the bus stop, I keep glancing down at my shoes and at the others hurriedly making their way past me. I hear the buzzing of life all around me. Some are on the phone rushing to work, others making small talk near coffee shops, and a man loudly sings along to his playlist with his earbuds in. I could hear some kids laughing as they made their way to school and the cars roaring away by on the busy street. The footsteps of everyone around me make an upbeat song of their own. I abruptly stop when I reach an older man wearing black leather shoes with intricate designs. We share a bus stop and the leather shoes man waited here with me everyday. We occasionally give each other a friendly nod but most days we silently share the street awaiting the giant clunky old bus. I marvel at how well-kept his shoes are. They gleamed proudly in the daylight and the shoelaces were tied with such precision, each lace hanging evenly on each side.The bus finally arrives and I quickly climb in finding an empty seat. The bus waits for a few minutes before roaring to life once again and dragging us to the next stop. I settle in and pull out my phone to check my work email but was interrupted by my dad’s call. “Hola Papi, what’s up?” “Hola mija!” He responds with an unusual amount of energy. “Just calling to ask if you’ve gotten the flowers yet?”“Flowers?” I reply scrunching my nose up in confusion. My dad hesitates for a moment before responding.“For your Mami’s birthday. Did you forget?” My heart sunk and panic at the same time as I scrambled for words to defend myself.“No!! Of course I didn’t forget! I am getting them right now!”“Ok good! Can you bring some coffee too?” He said believing my lie. I agree and hang up getting ready to jump off the bus and sprint to the nearest Starbucks.I frantically ran all over town to find a dozen pink roses, my mom’s favorite and the roses she gets every year. I placed my order of a vanilla latte and Americano on the Starbucks app and ran to the store to pick it up. I finally arrive and check the time. 9:10 a.m. I smiled a relief as I realized I would make it on time. I sit by the counter and check my Twitter for the latest news. After scrolling through few viral memes and videos I now realize its been ten minutes and my drinks are nowhere to be seen on the counter. I look at the busy barista and wait for the right moment to ask about my drinks. The man seemed to be around my height, five foot three maybe, and was incredibly fit. His tight black shirt seemed to restrict his every moment and if he sneezed it might burst. He had long blond hair pulled into a bun and brown freckles scattered over his face. I eventually built up the courage and asked about my drinks I ordered online. “I’m sorry but we didn't get any online orders,” He said between the whir of the blender making frappuccinos. “You sure it was this store?”I checked my phone and, to my horror, saw I ordered them at the Starbucks by my house. “Oh no,” I whimper. That would be another twenty minutes. The blond barista sees my face and asked what I ordered. I show him my phone and he gives me a nod. “I’ll have it out in a minute.” He said with a sweet smile. “Thank you so much, you are an angel!” He begins making my drinks and I continue to look at him appreciatively. When I get the drinks, I thank the kind barista once again and fast walk towards to florist. I try very hard as I maneuver my way through the crowd not to spill the coffee while keeping up the pace. I finally get to the flower shop and the sweet aroma of flowers fills up my nose. I go straight the girl behind the counter and place the coffee down, look her in the eyes and practically beg her for a dozen pink roses. “I’m sorry but we only have red and white roses.”I must have looked crazy to her with my wild eyes and strands of hair falling out of place and sticking to my sweaty forehead. “Do the red roses look kinda pink?” I ask half-jokingly. She smiles at me politely. “Ok I’ll take a six red and six white please.” She goes near the back and sets up my bouquet. Her arms were fit as well but not bulging like the barista’s. Her natural hair framed her dark face and her warm brown eyes intensely focused on the flowers. She had a dark blue denim jumpsuit on and looked like she walked out of a vogue magazine despite working at a flower shop. Something caught my attention to the left and I saw my reflection. My hair was much messier and my red lips had mostly faded away. I look down to my shoes and see that my beautiful flats were ruined from all the running. They bottom edges had chunks of mud clinging to them and somehow I managed to get some yellow stain on top. My heart drowned looking at my shoes but as soon as I saw my mom’s roses, I forgot about my shoes and handed the florist and fifty dollar bill. “Thank you!!!” I yelled as I ran back out with the cold coffee and wrong colored roses. As soon as I stepped out of the store I ran to the bus stop were, luckily, the bus was already there. I stepped off the curb and into a puddle where my entire left ankle sank in. I nearly whimpered not wanting to look down. I got on the bus and texted my dad I would be there soon. I finally saw my parents’ house, the glass door with a dark wooden frame inviting me. Their house was a suburban dream. A large green lawn with a giant old pecan tree surrounded by a horde of blooming hibiscus. I reached the door and rang the bell, attempting to regain my composure. My mom opens the door and as soon as I see her face, my hectic morning fades away and feel myself smile from ear to ear. “Happy Birthday, Mami!” I said with so much joy. She breaks out into a happy sob as she pulls me into her bear hug. My mother was a tiny and slender woman but she had the strength of the Hulk when she gave a hug. Her long pitch black hair smelled sweet like honey and toffee. Her skin was still smooth and soft, as she was only turning 43 years old. “Gracias, my baby!” She shouts as she continues to squeeze me as if I would fall apart if she let go. “Mama, your flowers!” She reluctantly releases me, wiping a happy tear, and lets me in. My dad comes up to me and gets his cup of coffee while giving me a kiss on the cheek. “Mija, what happened to your shoes?” My mom pointed out and I look down and see the puddle had completely ruined any chance of salvaging them. “I was running around and stepped into a puddle but,” I paused for a moment realizing I wasn’t as upset as I thought I would be, “it’s ok”. My mom studies my face carefully, knowing her daughter would have had a meltdown. I smile to reassure her and she grabs my hand telling me to follow her to her closet. We get into her spacious walk-in closet and we walk straight to a pair of shoes I have seen my entire life. They were Mexican sandals my mom wore in her twenties when she lived the Mexico. I had seen them in her closet all my life but they were far too damaged to wear. The shoes had tons of straps although none of them seemed to be holding on and the color was completely washed out. I looked at her and then the shoes again.“You once asked me why I never threw these out.” My mom said staring at the shoes with tears filling her eyes. “I needed these to remind me. To keep reminding me that I would do anything for you.”I was very confused as to how shoes from twenty years ago could remind her that but regardless I stayed silent and listened.“I wore these shoes when I held you in my arms as we left our families in Mexico and came to the U.S.,” she said, her eyes still fixated on the shoes but no longer here. “You were only two years old and so sweet and quiet. When I told you to be quiet, you stayed silent. When I told you to close your eyes, you kept them shut. When I carried you for hours and my feet were swollen and throbbing, I looked at your little face and kept going. When we finally made it to the other side, I cried so much I couldn't breathe. Then you pressed your forehead to my cheek and I stopped. I looked at your face and hands and feet, all perfect. I thought as long as you were ok and safe, I don’t care what happens to me.”My throat was closing up and tears were streaming down my face, just like my mom.“I didn't know that, Mami.” My voice cracking as I said that. She bends down and takes my shoes off and leaves them next to hers. “You didn't walk between two lands,” she said laughing between her tears, “but you walked all over the city for my flowers. Thank mija, but next time just come straight home!” We laughed and I embraced my mom, this time however, I was the one doing the squeezing. ................
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