I have a vivid memory of the big, comfy slip-on shoes you wore, protruding from beneath the hem of your black cassock. I remember the sheen of their soft black leather, the wrinkles left on their surface by constant wear. They used to gather dust on the path that led down past the chicken run and that great pine tree from the Rectory to the church. You had to shine them up again with a duster before the service. They had a big silver buckle, like a pirate’s shoe…
I do remember them.
Your son,
Peter
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