Barefoot

Some shoes tell a story: where you’ve been, the places you’ve seen, the streets you’ve walked.  They can tell of where you are, or where you’re going.  So much can be said for a single pair of shoes.  The ratty holes of the worn out boots that sit on daddy’s shelf.  They speak of hard times in the fields and long days at work.  The soft mauve slippers under mom’s desk.  They whisper the lullabies she sang when the storms blew loud outside.  The dusty baseball cleats in the hall closet.  That game brother almost won.  The dancing shoes hung in sister’s closet.  A routine much-practiced and rehearsed, only to be crushed by a sprained ankle.  So many shoes for so many stories.


I walk barefoot down the streets, in the halls, and through the crowds.  My story stays the same, for my shoes, they never change.  My feet are always with me, wherever I may go.  They come when I want no one else to follow.  They hold the stories that make my life, my personal repertoire.  Other’s shoes can tell their tales, every single pair.  For me, there’s only one shoe to wear, and my feet are always bare.