Everyone in my family has different shoes. My mom, dad, two sisters and I with no two pairs alike. Mom’s are like a day at the office. They are the knocking heard when she gets home from work. Black, bold and filled with battles at her desk. Like her, profoundly professional. Dad’s boots are the paint on his once red toolbox, worn from the overuse. His shoes have grown older than the dirt trapped in the laces. Like him, they are American.
My sisters and I tread somewhere between our parents footprints. One’s shoes require no laces and hug her feet like latex gloves. Her soles tell a different story, though. Stained with blood from the hospital where she works, yet--like my father’s-- the smell of dirt and adventure seep through their seems. Like her, they are forged from the Rockies. The other’s have stepped where my father’s have. The shoes have “studied the beetle diversity along the urban gradient.” They have stepped up and slipped down hills in the pouring rain and have doubled as water shoes in the swamps of Illinois. Like her, they are tough. The treads of my shoes leave a mark like my mom’s--however--they, too, are worn. When new, they portrayed style. In the time since, they have aged and now would be scolded at a business meeting. The once fresh boat shoes have never felt the wood floorboards of a sailboat, but they are falling apart--not American made. My attempt at style had led me astray. These shoes are not like me. I’m American made.