thoughts on barefeet

I remember learning how to tie my shoe laces.  Looping the two bunny-years through a hole and tying a double knot.  I showed my classmates, my grandparents and my older brother.  They were proud but my feet felt claustrophobic.  As a child, I hated shoes.  I loved feeling the hot cement burn the soles of my feet and feeling the wet grass squeak between the cracks of my toes.  I would delicately step across the gravel which led to our pasture-- the little pebbles creating indents on my dirty little feet.  There was a stream that ran in front of my house.  My feet splashed in the cold water and slipped along the mossy rocks.  My feet helped me climb trees or win a game of tag.  They would curl around the pedals of my bike and propel me forward on my scooter. 

My grandma would tell that if I didn’t wear shoes I would catch a cold and my father would tell me to stay off the carpet.  My mother would make me rinse my feet off every night before I could get into bed.  In the bathroom, I would wrap my toes around the gold handles of the drawers to help hoist myself onto the counter.  I would grab a wash cloth and the bar of soap and start scrubbing off the grey grime.  It was as if my feet were crying black tears as the memories of the day were washed down the drain.  There went the puddle jumping, the games of football with my brothers, or chlorine from a day at the pool.  

My feet carried my body, my feet carried my memories.

After the tears had been shed, I would dry the remains and hop down from the counter and feel the smooth linoleum beneath my pink feet.  I would then run across the hall, the carpet comforting my soles after their loss.  I’d clamber up onto my bed and reach my toes to the coolest part of my sheets. I’d wiggle them around and then close my eyes.

My feet have brought me up mountains and have splattered around in the Italian Riviera.  Sometimes they are covered in mud and when the music starts, they move me across the dance floor. I love when the waves of the ocean embrace my skin or when the sand clings to my toes long after I have left the beach.  I love feeling the grass prickle the bottom of my thick soles and the heat from the dark pavement seep through my calloused heals.

My feet carry my body, my feet carry my memories.

As I have reached adulthood, I rarely hear my grandmother caution me against illness and since I don't live at home, I am never told to keep my feet off of the carpet.  But, most nights, I still find myself with a washcloth and soap in hand.  And my feet still cry as the bubbles and warm water carry the moments of the day away from my soles.  

I dry the tears and run across the unswept linoleum of my apartment and crawl into bed, reaching my bare-feet to the coolest part of my sheets.  I wiggle my toes around a bit, then close my eyes.

My feet will carry my body, my feet will carry my memories.

Forget not that the earth delights to feel your bare feet and the winds long to play with your hair.

Khalil Gibran