Precious things

I'd like to write reams, but it comes down to this: art needs a frame.  Treasure needs a chest.  Precious things need to be cherished, or they become nothing but trash.

Have you ever seen a single shoe in a pile of junk?  Not a ratty-looking flip flip or broken-nacked slipper, either.  The suede was as soft as the day it was made, and a ruffle of gossamer thin paper was still tucked in the dainty toe.  It was the only thing in the room that seemed to repel the stench of rotten food and cat pee, still having that leatherish smell of a long-lost shoe box.  It should have been a precious thing, but without its partner, discarded and unloved?  It's just beautiful junk.

I slung it in the bin bag with sodden tissues, food wrappers and broken, useless things.  It still looked beautiful.