You have served me well, my alligator-head babouche. Your orange and black colorings always bring people’s attention to my feet. When I slip you on each morning I’m reminded of Morocco.
Your daddy was Mohammad, and you were born in the little room behind Ben Youssef Madrasa in D’jmaa Elfna Square. He displayed all his children in a shop next door according to size and color. When he found me sitting at his front door, hot and dusty, he invited me inside for tea.
You stood out from all the others, my dear alligator-heads. Your strong sisal bodies were hand crocheted into this curious shape. “Try them on.” Said your daddy, and we were a match.
Here in San Francisco you walk on carpeted floor and never fail to charm my friends. But after four years my big toes wear you thin, and like all things, I see the end approaching.
It is always a dilemma for me when I have to dispose of the things that I love. I write this not so much for you, but for me, so that should I come upon this entry many years from now, I may remember you.
Photo by Andy Stock
