Tag Archives: Shoes

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Three Little Dresses / Three Little Girls


They’re images of brides whom I know nothing about. The dresses all match the shorter style which is all the hotness right now.

Each represents a type, a common theme.  The beauty queen, the country girl, and the chaste naive.  Some say the dress makes the girl, others say the dress finds the girl. I don’t know what to say, but I wish I knew stories of each of them.

“They’re just models” you say. “There is no story.” But there is I say, “there always is a story.” With beauty queen, why cover the right eye? Sure it could have been a photo shoot decision, but what if the makeup didn’t quite hide the circles, was she up all night partying? Was she up all night studying, and modeling is how she pays for college? I don’t know.

Take country girl.  Would anyone be surprised to find out that she doesn’t where heels that much?  The stance is awkward to say the least, but she may actually really be uncomfortable in those shoes.  The dark eyeshadow makes her all dark and twisty, which further messes with the genre we’re going with here, why a dark and twisty country girl?  Maybe she really is, so the shot was adjusted to fit her personality.

Finally, naive chaste girl.  This wedding dress scares me.  Why the baby blue bow? It feels like a young child is getting sent off to the wolves.  Her eyes are so doughy as to question if she even understands what a marriage is, let alone a lifetime.  The flapper esque dress with the antiqued room, sets the stage for a vintage style wedding, but the girls eyes really bring into question, if she really should get sent off with this groom.  Is that panic? Her fingers grasping hold of the bouquet and skirt to hold on to herself?  Possibly her personality is showing through, and she simply is concentrating that hard on the camera.  In all cases we’ll never know, but the questions will always remain.

Who were these girls, and what were their stories?

Image Credit: weddingomania.com

~Morgan Werhen 2018.

Tear Drop

Down the Hall, Starting Over

Stepping into the hallway toward the stairs

I hear the muted click of my rubber edged heels against the gleaming oak floor. This house though now too much for me has so many memories. The scuff over by the base trim we made while I helped him bring the dresser upstairs.

“I got it, I got it!” I kept saying.

The wall ended up getting it as my fingers finally let go.

He would have been frustrated, but since we were making a bend, my scuff ended up distracting him as momentum carried his edge into the wall directly across from me. I take my hand and follow the gouge, still unpainted.

Sliding my fingers along the punctured wallboard, from afar it has looked like a painting error, or a heavy brush stroke resulting in a dimpled line along the wall. Staring at it now I could see the chips of paper hanging tenuously on the chalky plaster beneath. Each one perilously close to falling free from their ‘home’.

There is nothing that doesn’t remind me of his words.

“I love you.”

“I can’t wait to come home to see you.”

His smile, some would call it lazy, like his mouth wasn’t sure it should entirely comply with the request.

I loved it.

I loved how his eyes would brighten just before his lips would start to change shape.

I always knew that our fight was over, or he gave in when those eyes brightened. The smile was always the chocolate syrup on my own personal sundae. He would let me hug him for indeterminate amounts of time. Some of our friends would make comments, like “get a room” or “really? Again?”

I just liked the feel of him holding me.

Fighting back my tears, though not being very successful, I continued on down the stairs.

Tear Drop


These steps shouldn’t be a big deal, I have run, jumped and nearly slid down them so many times in the last year. It feels like I’m slipping now. That the steps themselves have morphed into a slide that will take me away, away from safety, away from our home. The end of the slide is unknown, it’s black, thick, and hard to breathe.

Each step echoes lightly, the oak treads recently refinished by his very hands. It’s as though I’m ripping each tread off the stairs, almost taking his work away from him.

Why does each step feel so final?

My left hand goes to my ear, and habitually wraps stray hair around it.

The knoll post is approaching, I hesitantly approach it. I reach out to touch it one more time. My hand graces the beauty and smoothness. The post that anchors the stairs.

His post.

It’s round, natural grain seems to stream into my eyes, as the sun hits the blond clear coat. I move my hand and the change in position splays shadows over my body.

The final step, the door stands in front of me, imposing, judging me.

I reach out, and grasp hold of the knob, the last barrier to my exit. The old knob normally would creak in resistance to the twisting motion, today greets me in silence. I pull slightly, and the sun streams into its new opening. Stepping onto my porch, I continue. Standing straight, looking good for the part I have to take.

Outside, starting over again.

Next Chapter

Buckle Strap Block Heel Ankle Booties


It felt like I’ve been getting ready forever. I’m still representing in the mirror, at least, my makeup isn’t crumbling. This night is going to happen, everything is set minus my shoes.

Every outfit needs shoes, or actually lately, every outfit needs boots! The booties I’m planning to put on are new, ordered exactly my size in luscious black leather.

The box is cute. Orange top with yellow flowers lightly attached in a rainbow arch. Daisies smiling back at me. I usually like to add ceremony to my personal unboxing. The room is quiet today with the clouds obscuring the sun outside. The light in the room is muted though waiting for a reason to light up the yellow cardboard flora. Leaning down toward the box my necklace pointing toward the edge, it slowly makes its way back toward my chest as I lift the top.

The ‘Forever’ logo’d tissue paper crinkles as oxygen fills the void left while lifting the cover. What sweet goodness do I see hidden beneath the soft white lattice of birch and cream? The deep color is muted underneath the translucent peal, the light wrap only enhances the need to see what was held in the quiet darkness.

I was about to pull the paper away, exposed the truth beneath, but I hesitated. My mind moved away from the freedom at hand, and fell back into a familiar thought. The darkness outside seemed less muted, more cloudy.

It’s been three months.

Maybe it was how the room reflected the missing jewelry. Possibly it’s how the teal polish seems darker on a foggy day. Either way, I’m here, I’m standing, I’m wearing a dress that epitomizes my me. I’m staring at the article that will get me out the door, but my piece, my silver, the part that lived with me is now simply missing. A white band, a void, skin without a silver band.

He’s gone. He’ll never be back.

I turn to face the mirror again. Willing my face to hold. My hand shakes a bit, grasping the chair in front of me. The welling inside, is there, it’s on the edge of my breath. If I skip on the inhale this could be it. So many tears. Pillows stained with mascara. I used to believe that a cry relived my stress until I couldn’t turn it off. Is there any way to just make this day move forward?

“Breathe” I said quietly. “Breathe”, I inhaled, slowly, I was going to finish this one. Okay, exhale, close your eyes. Maintain. Move your hair behind your ear. Inhale. Exhale. Open your eyes. Reapply that lipstick. Yes. Maintain.

“I can do this.” I quietly breathed. “I can do this!” I said aloud.

By this time, I willed my right hand behind me, pinching the comforter and pulling myself back around. I’m now staring at the daisies. Sweet yellow flowers, so much hope.

“I must do this.”

It’s time to get ready.

The faux leather looks soft, black as dark as night. The heal catches the tapered sole in an powerful embrace. I love how narrow it looks sitting in the box. The zipper, partially pulled down “showing a little” to its single audience. Fingering the sole I trace it’s path toward the heel. Three inches to my five foot six frame. Apart from discomfort, there is nothing that shapes my body better than a well heeled shoe. If I feel cute than I must be. If I look happy than I am.

If I go out I’ll feel better.

Grasping the heel, I spin the bootie around to view the show. Buckles! Three silver attachments, holding tight to any ankle, my ankle, protecting me from a life that is less understood.

The zipper crackles and snaps as I draw it down to expose the insides. Sitting back in front of my mirror, I start sliding my right foot into its adorable prison. The anklet disappears slightly, til I realize that those narrow fronts are hiding a secret. I spin and twist, grasping hold of the upper. “You. Will. Fit. This. Foot. Today.” I say in cadence with my foot twists.

After a slight bit of work, my foot slides home. Leaning over, I grab the lonely sister and duplicate the chore. Staring down at my cloven feet I smile. The narrow front, strongly laden with buckles and belts. The taper from my calve now holds true. Slight pain for glorious style. I stand, and for once smile. Some sun peaks through the window, and my posture takes hold.

The first step is the hardest, but I turn toward the door on my way into the hallway.

Next Chapter

Bootie: Amazon