Miles Walked in My Own Shoes
I rarely buy shoes new. My closet is comprised of clothes from various origins, including yard sales, thrift shops, and gifts from my family (that were probably also found at yard sales and thrift shops). These shoes in particular came from the Salvation Army.
It was three years ago when Nanny and I were preparing for our trip to Bermuda. I saw them on the shoe rack and knew I had to have them. They had a few cracks in the soles and frayed edges, but they fit so well and looked so good- a rarity when you wear size 6.
Not only were they my feature pair in Bermuda, these shoes have trekked with me through Nova Scotia, Florida (three times), almost daily in the summertime, Maine, and most recently through Montréal.
They collected more cracks and frays with each mile, and it was Montréal that did them in when a middle strap broke.
I'm almost sad to let these shoes go. To think of the miles we traveled together and the places we saw creates this weird sort of connection between me and an inanimate object. (Almost like what I feel with the bug, but not quite.)
My favorite memories are walking the rocks of Peggy's Cove, trailblazing through the sands of Warwick Long Bay and Siesta Key Beach, and simple moments spent at my family's camp on Pequawket Lake or just grabbing lunch in Littleton. And that's just where I've been with this one pair.
The cliche goes "walk a mile in someone's to truly understand them," but sometimes it's fun to reflect on the miles walked in yours.