If I could’ve given myself enough permission, I’d still have these shoes I bought one afternoon when I was visiting my still-alive mother, the one who didn’t teach me about my uterus, my uterus that carried and birthed the son who was with me the day we went shopping for tennis shoes for him, and I tried these on and the hip young sales guy told me I looked hot in them (“Your mama sure looks hot in those, son.” he said.) and I knew he was a salesman and also that I did look hot in them, so I bought them, along with my son’s new sneakers, and took my son and our two new pairs of shoes home to my mother’s apartment, where she still was alive. I’ve forgiven my mom for that loss I suffered, the one about her not teaching me I had a uterus and a vagina. I’ve forgiven her over and over and over again. But also, this: if I’d given myself enough permission for not still being the girl who didn’t know she had a uterus and a vagina, and had instead grown into “Your mama sure looks hot in those, son,” I’d be wearing these platformed heels right now, right now as I write.