In one closet there can be a dozen different pairs of shoes. Each shelf is lined with the memories of the past.  It has old work boots cracked, worn out, and tired the sole half fallen off, which earned me my first paycheck. It has fine meticulously crafted dress shoes surrounded by the joyful memories of weddings, the sad memories of funerals, and the smell of polished leather. The red Tennis shoes that are now too small to fit are coated in a layer of mud as thick as wood from running in the woods with friends after a hard rain. The sandals that smack the bottom of your feet like a small plank whenever you walk still smell of the beach where you looked for shells with your grandfather. The pair of comfortable slippers that would be worn all weekend when there was nothing to do. Finally, the New arrival a pair of black shoes yet to be worn and ready and excited for memories of its own. All of these were contained within a small cold space behind a wooden door in a far corner of the house. My little memories are so unassuming alone in that dark little room.