They are the only ones who go to battle with me. I am the only one who understands them. Two tattered trainers with a habit of pounding pavement, like me. Two who belong here, on my feet. Two blackened soles, abused by the sidewalks. From here, I can hear them strike the ground, but their rhythmic cadence is something I appreciate.

Their persistence parallels mine. They send enormous passion beneath the ground. They move fast and they move slow and strike the ground with their rubber soles and pull the grass with brisk strides and never fail in structure. This is how they persist.

Should one fail its job, they’d both collapse like a folding chair, each with their soles torn apart. Persist, persist, persist they say when I move. They grind.

When I am too exhausted and too weak to keep persisting, when I am a small thing against so many miles, then it is I look to the trainers. When my body is weary and weak, I gaze at my feet. Two who persist despite concrete. Two that grind and do not forget to grind. Two whose only reason is to be and stay.