Day Five-Forty-Nine: You wish your shoes were as awesome

Yesterday's 'moment', lame though it may have been, has filled me with regrets. Deep, scarring, lingering regrets. And while I may be over-emphasizing that point, as I am not really deeply scarred, I am, indeed, regretful.

We ruined a woman's shoes. For no good reason.

I'll be honest. Robert was a dick as a kid, and so, too, was I. Mainly by proxy. Villeinville's a boring place, not a community for young'uns, and we were the only two children of our age growing up. We took our stimulation where we got it, and that meant acting out and doing stupid stuff.

Consequently, we ruined an old woman's shoes. And that was wrong of us, so very wrong.

Think about it. Shoes are a necessity. Shoes are life. Can you do anything with shoes? Indoors, yes, maybe. So long as there's carpet. But outside? Where there are sticks on the ground, rocks in the streets, bugs at your ankles and bird poo everywhere? Your feet are at risk. You can survive without a shirt, or pants, or a stupid, floppy hat with a feather in it and a band so tight that you fear it might be hugging your brain so tightly that it will one day burst, but shoes? No. 

Regrets.

Many, many regrets.

So when I heard that the woman is still around (her name is Cybil, by the way - I was close enough, it's still an old name), I knew I had to set the record straight. I had to get her some new shoes.

My memories of back then are hazy. I was, like, three. I can be excused for forgetting what the shoes looked like. Nevertheless, I can remember that they were tan-coloured, leather, and bound up by a nice lace. That was enough of a description for me to go by…

… when I ordered a new pair of shoes from the local cordwainer. (Old guy, name of Gus. Stooped, has lots of dandruff, likes to ogle farm animals in his spare time. Weirdo.) He couldn't remember the shoes, either, but he gladly accepted the commission in exchange for a small sack of gold.

The shoes will be ready tomorrow. Once they are, I will present them to Cybil at her shack, plead my case, and let her know that the two little boys who wronged her all those years ago are contrite. I'm assuming Robert would be contrite, I know, but the living always assume the best of the dead. 

Except when they call them dicks, I guess.

… what? He was a dick. No illusions about that. Nice guys can be dicks. Can't they?

Anyway. Shoe delivery tomorrow, apologies tomorrow, and, if all goes well, departure from Villeinville tomorrow. Next week, we're off to the border, and I'll be travelling with an unburdened heart! Woo!

Sincerely,

Dragomir the Wanderer