I have some strange attachment to my pair of work shoes, and now I must discard them.
They are brown oxfords, Showing the wear of almost two years. They themselves were a replacement for my first ever business style shoe, having preferred sneakers, sandals, or best of all bare feet that would paint my childhood home with muddy prints on the floor.
But these oxfords were different. I felt confident wearing them, the wooden heel lifting me no more then half an inch yet I felt like a giant walking triumphantly into the office.
Now the heels have been sanded down by timeless steps, grinding against every surface between my closet and work desk.
The tough leather that once gave me blisters is now soft, holding an expression so similar to a tired traveler. Edges frayed and the sole rubbed clean away, the shoes have been spent and I as the owner feel strangely guilty.
Is it simple to express emotions towards the objects in our daily lives, yet it has caught me off guard that I must simply discard these worn out shoes.
Though they have no eyes to read these thoughts, I hope is some way my shoes understand how I feel.
Looking down to my feet, I laugh out loud when I notice one of the laces of my shoes are untied.