When I was a child, I lost my shoe out of the window of a moving car.
The day was warm: blue sky, chittering birds. I was reclined in the backseat: the insouciant sprawl of an only child. I wasn’t an only child, but my siblings were decades older and long gone. I longed to fill the yawning space they had left behind. My legs were long and spindly, ending in big, narrow feet. I didn’t pay them much attention, outside of the instinctive curl of my toes to keep my sandals from flapping off into the wind. How funny would that be? I thought, turning the page of my book.