What the Foot Knows

I held them up. Two years

of almost every day. The right heel

worn more than the left. The sole

molded to my foot—a shape I didn't notice forming.

Put them on yesterday without thinking.

Then really looked. The groove inside

where my foot wore through the fabric.

Leather cracked in specific places.

The heel is darkened. The sole is smooth.

This is a map. This is a whole

archive of living. My foot knows

what my mind has let go.

What was I doing in these shoes?

What mattered enough to wear them down?

The leather won't say. But it shows

the proof. The evidence. The truth.

I don't throw them out.

Some things you keep because they hold you

better than you hold yourself.

Even when the shape doesn't match.