The Shoeshine Man

A thin man, not too tall. He wears a starched white shirt with a black bow tie. His hands are the color of mocha. His long, thin fingers work by themselves, not needing any help from his brain. They dance across my boot, dabbing polish here, while his experienced eye scans the drawers for the correct color. He appraises the leather of the boot, a comment or two on the quality as he rubs the creamy polish into the leather. He taps a beat on the toe of my boot; buffing out a shine, like a tap dancer…a slow shuffle, the beat, quiet, yet definite…tap, tap, and again, tap, tap.

I sit there, watching this gentle man, smiling to myself. Memories of a shoeshine man from long ago, in Boston, come to mind. I am filled with emotion, which stuns me. "Why,” I ask myself?

I’m still thinking about the answer.