Our Shoes

My mind is blank after the long work day. My feet ache with the feeling of standing too long in shoes meant for outfit support, not arch support. My gaze shifts blankly until suddenly, my eyes catch onto someone else’s shoes. They are perfectly normal shoes, some sort of gray New Balances. They’re slightly worn, but overall in good shape. There are small pieces of grass stuck along the thick rubbery sides, as well as minor mud scuffs. The feet are crossed at the ankle, connected to legs in jeans that stretch out slightly outside of the invisible seat boundary. An act of confidence, or exhaustion, unknown. Who they are and why these shoes and where they’ve been is a mystery to me, but clearly, they’ve been places. I let my eyes wander up, past where they’re supposed to stay, locked onto the floor, and see a college lanyard. The hands are typing away frantically at the screen in front of their face, lost in their own world, their shoes one of the only signals to where they’ve been before now.

Who is that across from me now? Beside me? What do we share besides our humanity, this singular moment in time, full of monotony. Even on this same journey, the origin, destination, and the ways we experience this is different, imperceivable. The shoes have been along for this journey, leaving behind imprints. Often I see the back outer heel worn down the most, carrying the weight of our stride, absorbing the impact for our knees, ankles, and hips. Supporting us along our journey, keeping a protective buffer between us and the ground. 

Nikes with the soles attached with packing tape. Crocs with “jibbitz” that are Cheeto branded. Every now and then, a pair of high heels or dress shoes where you can hear the click-clack pattern before you even see the person. All of us standing here or there, walking along similar paths, sitting at the tables across from one another, shoes tapping away with rhythm or nerves.

I see all kinds of shoes, no two pairs exactly alike after the first wear. I see small slide on laceless shoes, dry, swollen ankles beneath the bottom hem of work pants. A bejeweled hat pulled over her face as she doses off. The thick, rimless glasses hide the eye bags. A photo of two children lights up when her phone receives a notification. Someone’s grandmother. Maybe she’s worked the morning shift; it’s just now noon. Maybe she’s just exhausted, regularly, like the rest of us, her shoes wearing thin after working day in and day out.

Outside, the blanket of heat seems to be thinning too —it feels like the beginning of fall for the first time after a brutal summer. It's apparently still 87 degrees today, but there’s a secret in the crisp air that hints to what’s to come. The spiders and the bees have all been whispering to the leaves and reminding them that it’s almost time for a reprieve, they can lie down soon, enjoy the slumber. They carry the message to the migratory birds, telling them to come back in 6 months. Things will be different next time. They have no belongings, nothing to soften the impact of the ground beneath their little feet when they hop around on the ground. They just go, following their instinct, not thinking about the journey back, but being divinely ordained to live now, in the present, in just the flesh, shoeless, and free.

Soon the shoes will change with the weather. They’ll go from flip flops to sneakers, sneakers to boots. Dress shoes will stay dress shoes, loafers as loafers. As they dull, bend, and stain, the back outer edges will still get more and more worn down. There are no cobblers to fix this nowadays, and even if there still were, the shoes now are not made to last. They’re meant to keep wearing further and further down, until one day they reach past the sole.

If you keep going and keep wearing it down, working beyond the sole and grinding your feet against the pavement, your feet will eventually bleed and burn, and you’ll have tears in your eyes and sob in your throat but if you keep walking, keep going, the shoes will completely wear down and break off your feet and you’ll be left with nothing to stand on but your own two legs, right in the ground, as it is. It’s important that you keep going, keep doing what you’re doing, following your routine and following your path and eventually you'll walk through every season, following the shadows of the migratory birds, from the blistering hot to the piercing cold, through the grass and across pavement, over rocks and into puddles, day in and day out, and one day you’ll notice you no longer have tears in your eyes and your feet no longer hurt. The sob in your throat is replaced by a hum. You keep going with your own two feet, and they’re now thick with callused skin and tinted with the stains of the earth, but they’re yours, and you’re still going, still walking home, wherever that may be.