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Old Shoes
By JoHannah P. Green
I own a pair of fifty-seven-year-old shoes.
run-down,
scuffed up,
sloppy,
grey-from-years-of-wear-and-tear;
comfortable old shoes.
I take them out and other shoes
younger shoes
prettier shoes
trendier shoes
feel-smug-and-superior-shoes
stick out their tongues
and snicker.
But I wear these old shoes just the same
Because they danced me around
when I wanted to dance
Because they paced the floors
when I could not sleep
Because they held me firm
when I wanted to run away
Because they always made me tall enough
for any task
They do not look like other shoes
and
sometimes they are hard to wear
Still, they have roads to walk
and gardens to plant
and sunrisings and sunsettings
and lakeshores and oceans
of sandy beaches to wander
and meadows and forests to traverse
And mountains to climb
that younger, prettier, trendier shoes
just would not have the durability
or the strength to handle.
These are well-made, water-proof
stained-the-color-of-the-roads-I-have-traveled
old shoes,
with creases
and spots that sag.
And, some day, the stitching will split
and then I will have to find another pair
to travel a different road with me.
But, until then, I carefully pull them on
and we walk out
together
worn, but not worn-out,
to scuffle through the leaves of autumn
and walk a few miles more.
After all
they are only 57 years old.
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