Everyone in my family has different feet. Some large, some little, some soft, some scrunchie. My brother has insanely immense feet. He uses them to sprint like a cheetah around the track. My father has feet that clasp into work boots, sometimes blemished, bloody and bruised. My mother has feet that prance each step taken, soft like freshly shaven legs. And my baby brother has feet that grow like flower seeds with sunlight and water.
But me, my feet, my feet are as tiny as a pea. Smaller than anyone’s feet in my family. My feet, so little, they dance down the children’s shoe isle at stores. They stuff cotton balls in the high heels that are too hefty to dance in at homecoming. The puny feet, my puny feet that allow me to execute sick skills that are ten times their size. The petit foot prints that sprung through the crisp, gleaming snow on a brilliant winter morning. The crisp, gleaming snow on a brilliant winter morning.