August 28, 2026

Our Little Shoe Shiner – A Tribute

In my teens he came,
the day before Sundays,
the eve of bright festivals,
small in frame, underfed,
shabby, with a voice
that others mocked.

The pavement was his world
on which he laid his treasure:
a wooden chest of brushes,
black and brown polishes,
a buffing cloth to shine the leather.

In the heat, in the dust,
he worked for a few coins.
Some sneered, told him to wait
for his meagre earnings.

I once asked where he lived.
“I have no home,” he said.
There was no shame,
only acceptance,
with a smile
that shone brighter
than the shoes he polished,
hiding the weight of his life.

Then one day I left
for foreign shores.
Each year I came on holiday,
I enquired about him.
But, he was gone.
Dead from hunger,
or worse, a broken heart.

Like a speck of dust,
blown away by the swirling wind,
perhaps buried by the street,
without a name,
without a farewell.

Fifty years on,
I still ask myself:
how could we be so cruel
to the one who laboured
to eke out a living?

And when the bell finally tolls for us,
what will our answer to the Lord be?

Each time I polish my shoes,
his face returns.
How I longed to hug him,
to say I wish I could do something.

But he was gone -
a shadow among us,
seen for a moment, gone forever.

Today, as I sat
to shine my shoes,
I wept.

All I can do is pray
that he feasts in heaven,
safe from heartless taunts,
never hungry,
and welcomed at the banquet
of the One who provides for us all.

And if God in His mercy grants
me a place in that eternal home,
I have a wish:
to find our little shoe shiner,
and give him the biggest hug
my soul can hold.