What They Carried

I found them in the back of my closet.

I hadn't thought about them in months,

maybe longer.

The sole is almost smooth on one side.

There's a small tear in the canvas,

right at the ball of the foot,

where I pressed hardest,

where I walked the most.

The fabric is faded unevenly—

darker where my toes bent,

lighter everywhere else.

There's a worn spot at the heel

shaped like the shape of me,

like my foot pressed into the material

and left an outline.

I picked them up and held them.

They were lighter than I remembered,

like the inside had hollowed out

from all the walking.

I used to wear these everywhere.

Through something that mattered.

Through a year I'm trying not to think about.

Through rain and concrete and waiting.

Now they're unwearable.

The sole won't grip.

The tear will only get worse.

I put them back in the closet.

Not on the shelf where they belong.

Back in the corner, in the dark,

where I found them.