The Secrets Kept by Well Worn Shoes

I have a beat-up pair of sandals that I have loved for seven years.

My sister and I found them while thrift store shopping at the Goodwill.

To be fair, my sister saw them first. She gasped when she saw them and clutched them possessively.

But when she turned them over to check their size she let out a disgusted sigh, and without a backward glance she thrust them in my direction.

“Here” she said irritably, for they were my size.

They fit me perfectly in both size and style.

I am told they are Roman which reminds me of white marble columns, and togas, amaranth, and wine.

But these sandals hail from Spain, the romantic land of the Bolero which is danced at the demand of the Flamenco guitar, and stamped to the rhythm of the castanet.

They are made out of leather in shades of tawny tans, and chocolate browns.

I wear them with nail polish shades in coppers and bronze.

I wear them with summery skirts, or ripped up jeans.

I have worn them for seven summers to nearly everything.

I have walked down mountain trails perfumed with blackberries, wild roses, and pungent evergreen pine.

I have walked lonely pebble beaches, under a midnight moon. Even now I can hear the crunch of grey rocks accompanied by the soft song of the waves.

I ran through the streets of Seattle, caught in a sudden down pour of rain, on the quest for the best fish tacos I ever tasted.

In these sandals I have danced many dances, backyard dances, dive bar dances, private concert dances, slow lingering dances made sultry by the summer heat. I danced to the song of my lonely heart, where I sang just for me.

When I put these sandals on, they hug my feet in a sensual way.

Three straps bind around my ankle and zip up the back.

The tracks underneath them are cut outs of soaring birds in flight. When I wear these sandals, I am prepared to be a “bird in flight.”

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They have been kicked off by campfires, discarded outside tents, lost under couches, and found in the morning.

The leather in the soles are both cracked and worn, and I fear I will never replace them.

To most people they are only a pair of worn out old sandals.

But to me they are a picture book bound in old leather filled with snapshots of secret lovers, and fantastic wonders only found in nature, and not on the urban street near my suburban home.

Later in life, I suspect that one day, while I’m collecting items to donate to the Goodwill, I will rediscover them, remember them, and smile.

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