The Shoes My Father Left Behind

The Shoes My Father Left Behind

By Hasnain Shah

When my father passed away, the first thing I noticed was the row of shoes lined neatly in the corner of his closet. They were ordinary shoes to anyone else, but to me, they were a timeline. Every scuff, every crease in the leather, every sole worn thin told a chapter of his life—and mine.

I pulled the first pair out gently: a pair of battered work boots. The leather was cracked and stiff, the laces frayed where his rough hands had tied and untied them thousands of times. I remembered being a child and sitting on the porch as he came home from long shifts at the factory. The boots would hit the ground with a heavy thud, dust puffing into the air. He’d rub my hair with one tired hand, saying, “Hard work is what keeps food on the table, son. Don’t ever be afraid of it.” Those boots smelled of oil and sweat, but to me, they smelled of sacrifice.

Next, I lifted a pair of polished black dress shoes. They gleamed, though not as brightly as they once had, and the insides were lined with soft wear from countless Sundays. These were his church shoes, the ones he wore with a pressed white shirt and a tie he never quite got straight. I remembered how he would hold my hand during hymns, his voice off-key but loud, proud. “Faith,” he used to say, “isn’t about being perfect. It’s about showing up, even when you don’t feel like it.” Those shoes carried him into pews where he knelt in prayer, into weddings where he gave blessings, and even into funerals where his voice trembled but still offered comfort.

Then, buried in the back, I found a pair of old running shoes. They were faded red with soles nearly worn flat, dusted with traces of dried mud. He had bought them the year he decided to “get healthy,” as he put it. I remember the sight of him jogging down our street, awkward but determined, sweat rolling down his brow. He never became a marathon runner, but he taught me something just as important: “It’s never too late to start over. Your body, your habits, your life—you can change them if you want to.” Those shoes didn’t tell a story of victory; they told a story of persistence.

Further back still were his fishing boots—knee-high rubber ones, still faintly smelling of lake water. These were the shoes of summer Saturdays, when he’d wake me before dawn, whispering, “The fish bite better in the morning.” I can still feel the rocking of the boat, the silence between us broken only by birdsong or the splash of a caught fish. “Patience,” he’d remind me, “isn’t waiting without moving—it’s waiting while believing.” Those boots taught me that silence could be a kind of love, too.

And finally, I found his slippers. Soft, faded plaid, nearly falling apart at the seams. These were not shoes for the outside world but for the quiet evenings at home, when he would sit in his armchair with a book or the radio. I remembered curling up near him on the rug, his presence steady and grounding. “Family is where you rest,” he once told me. “It’s the only place you don’t have to prove yourself.”

As I lined the shoes back up, I realized they weren’t just remnants of a life lived. They were guideposts. Each pair carried a lesson that had shaped me: hard work, faith, persistence, patience, love.

I decided not to give them away. They were too sacred for that. Instead, I boxed them carefully, labeling each pair not with size or style, but with the words they represented. Someday, I hope my own child will find the box and understand, as I did, that a man’s life isn’t measured in the things he leaves behind, but in the footprints he makes along the way.

When I closed the closet door for the last time, I didn’t feel emptiness. I felt direction. Because every step I took from then on would, in some way, be walking in my father’s shoes.