Dancing SHOES
It was time to empty the last box. Lucy pulled it from its spot and read the scribbled label on its lid. ‘Miscellaneous stuff,’ it said, in John’s handwriting. She smiled. Organisation had never been John’s strong point.
The other boxes she’d unpacked had held dusty books and the odd loved photo that had made her smile. She opened the flaps, sending up a cloud of dust that she batted away with her hands, before looking inside. An old blanket was folded up at the top, smelling of mildew. One for the rubbish bag.
She bundled it up into the bin bag at her side and looked into the box again. There was only one thing left – a pair of ballet shoes. They seemed small and slender now – she can’t have been more than 12 when she’d given up lessons.
Lucy raised the shoes to her nose and breathed deeply. She could still smell polish underneath the dust and the age and the years of sitting in the
