The map my feet made

The canvas is gray now.

The sole is peeling away from the edges,

and the left shoe is still

slightly broken in

on the side where my foot

turns inward.

I put them on for two minutes

and my feet remembered

everything.

They remember the three blocks

I walked

over and over

in 2019,

the specific route

that made sense

only because I was walking it

trying to think my way

out of what had happened.

These shoes carried me

through the breakup.

Through the numbness.

Through the nights

I couldn't sleep

so I walked instead,

and my feet learned

the cracks in the sidewalk,

the weight of my body

pressing down,

the rhythm

that was the only thing

still working.

The lace is knotted in three places.

I never bothered to replace it.

The heel is almost worn through,

the rubber exposing

the material underneath,

and I can see

exactly where

my weight fell

most often.

My body left its map

on these shoes.

I could throw them away.

I could buy new ones.

But they still fit.

And some part of me

needs to keep them,

needs to keep the evidence

that I walked through something

and survived it,

that my feet know

the specific geography

of my own grief.

I put them back in the closet.

I didn't wear them.

But I know they're there,

still broken in,

still remembering

what I tried so hard

to walk away from.