I don’t know their birthday, but I got them for my twelfth. From the store in the Riverdale Shops, on Riverdale Road, in West Springfield. They cost close to one hundred dollars, which was one hundred dollars more than my parent’s budget could afford that year. I wore a size seven, but they were a size nine. They were blue and white, and so, since blue always has been and always will be my favorite color, I didn’t care that they were two sizes too big.
The leather was crisp, un-creased, and pure. I bought half white, half blue laces from CVS and I laced them with delicate fingers. Making sure not to get any smudges of dirt, or pizza grease, on them. I made sure they were tied neither too tight nor too loose. For weeks I walked as if tiptoeing across eggshells. Those leaves might get dirt on them. That water might leave a stain. Be careful how you step, you might leave a crease in the toe. I treated them like gold, placing much more value in a pair of sneakers than the $100 my mother paid.
Over time they started to lose their crispness. I wore them everywhere. I wore them everyday to middle school and every afternoon after the school bell rang. I wore them as I walked to the train tracks on the other side of town with my best friend. An hour and a half there, an hour and a half back, plus however long we stayed. I wore them as I balanced along the rail, with my arms spread like a bird. Leaning first to the left. Then to the right. Fighting gravity. Fighting the rubber’s will to slide off the hot metal. I always loved the sound they made while we walked along the tracks. The rocks shifting under their rubber soles. I loved the way they allowed me to feel each piece of stone, and the way the sole was thick enough that it didn’t hurt.
I wore them the night Matt & I made paper airplanes in the backyard while my parents were out. We lit the nose of each of our planes with a match. We threw the folded paper into the black of the night and watched as they soared through the yard. We watched as both planes landed in my mothers precious Roses. I wore them as I ran over to the garden. And I wore them as I tried desperately to stomp out the flames. I didn’t wear them the next day – fearing their melted undersides would tell her who the culprit was.
I wore them to ECOS in eighth grade. Together we hiked the trails of Forest Park. They impressed my classmates with their ease of navigation. They knew this forest well. They carried me across the fallen trees stretching over small streams. They carried me almost all the way around the edge of the swamp. They carried me up until one decided it was curious and sank into the mud, weaseling its way off my foot. Of course I had to fish it back out, and back onto my foot it went.
I wore them on my first date with Andy. It was winter and I was nervous, but they kept my feet warm. They led me to the bus station a few months later and rode with me to Boston to see him. I didn’t wear them the first time I slept with him, but they were right next to the bed waiting to bring me home. I wore them on our nighttime walks through the Commons. I wore them so much the soles wore out. And like the way he said he loved how my hands perfectly fit together with his, I loved the way the dew of the grass would seep through the bottoms and into my socks. I wore them for the entirety of our four-year relationship, and I wore them when I ended it.
I wore them on my first day of high school, and the sum odd one thousand days following. They were on my feet when my Latin class went to Italy. They were splashed by the Trevi Fountain, and kissed the ground of the Coliseum. They explored the ruins of Pompeii. I wore them while I chased the pigeons my teacher told us not to chase. The right one stayed on my foot after the pigeons flew away and the left was removed to expose my broken ankle. Brittany Antonasio carried my left shoe while I was carried to the Italian hospital. My right shoe stood with me the whole way.
They led me all over the world. They rubbed against the lava rocks in Iceland. They kept my feet planted while digging the well in Mexico. They walked the cobblestone roads in Copenhagen, and down Karl Marx Allee in Berlin. Each of these trips were not just mine, they belonged to the shoes as well.
Just as I brought home souvenirs, so did they. With each adventure, each trip, they picked things up and left others behind. They bathed in the Mexican sun until the white leather dried and flaked away. The cracks in the soles picked up lava pebbles and lodged them there forever. The rubber eternally gripping the tar from the train tracks. If I hold them close to my nose, close my eyes, and breathe in deeply I can still smell a hint of pina-colada from the hose Matt sprayed at them outside the car wash many years ago.
My mother has tried desperately to get rid of these shoes that have plagued her house for years with all sorts of scents and debris. Coming home every now and then with a new box. “Look Court! Blue and white – your favorite colors.” She’ll hold them in front of me, showing me the sole. “Look, see, now your feet won’t get soaked when it rains.” I can always count on her emails when she’s out of the country – I saw these great shoes today. You would love them. I’ll see if they have your size.
I’ll wear these imposters occasionally to make her happy, but they are just that – imposters. They are always either too tight so I can’t slip my foot out before untying them. Or too loose so that the heel drags when I walk. They aren’t the right shape so they don’t catch my pant leg and prohibit it from dragging across the pavement. The soles are too thick so I can’t feel the ground beneath me. Or too thin so that every pebble stings. They smell too new and they bite at my heels. None of the others carry me to my destinations. They weigh down my feet. They shimmer and shine and beg to be seen.
My blue and white Nike Air Force Ones were born on my twelfth birthday. And although they may have been retired last October – they endured close to 2,920 days, four countries, and embody endless memories. They may have come from the store in the Riverdale Shops, on Riverdale Road, in West Springfield. With one hundred dollars that my parents couldn’t afford that year. And to you they may be just a pair of shoes. And an ugly pair at that. But to me – they are more than shoes. They are a collage. A timeline. A history. They are where I go when I need to find sanity. Or courage. They are a place of comfort in this state that is not my Home. They still retain their blue (although faded), and most of their white, and even though their laces are frayed and their bottoms absorb whatever is on their path, I will still wear them when I need their guidance. They were never two sizes too big – they were perfect.