Feet
Everybody in our family has different feet. My dad’s feet are like Fred Flintstone’s, rough and peeling. His feet are old and have worn through several steel toe boots. Kacie’s feet are stinky, they spend hours at the gym and never abide by Odor Eaters or Lotrimin AF. My mom’s feet are smooth from her pedicures and smell like roses, so she says. Jake’s feet are slick, slide right out of his sock from restless nights of stress and pressure at the library, cramming for tests.
But my feet, my feet, like a tub of margarine, like the refreshing dip of the cold ocean floor: salty. My feet are clean, no bunions, corns, or calluses. My feet smell like the burry breeze in the coldest months. My feet are excellent and can warm the soul of any human being.