By Aimee Drew

A pair of simple shoes: black, linen, flat, pointed-toe. I bought them on an early morning in San Francisco. They were perfect: classic, comfortable, and they went with everything. They were exactly the shoes I was looking for. I was excited to put them on, break them in, and dispose of my ragged, old, suede flats that turned my feet a sickly green color in the rain. I loved those new shoes so much that I barely took them once I slipped my feet into them on that chilly April day.
After months of wear, my shoes are not the pristine, perfect little flats they once were. Now they are beat up: ripped, torn, discolored, laced with holes, and the soles have been worn thin. They smell awful, they look awful, and they are literally falling apart on my feet, yet, I still wear them almost every day. I have many other pairs of shoes, but I can’t seem to bring myself to throw away my decrepit black flats.
I keep telling myself that once I find a new pair, my old ones will be cast aside, but I don’t think I’ll be able to part with them; these shoes hold memories. When I look down at them and feel how they mold perfectly to my feet, I smile because they have been with me through long days, cold nights, and countless adventures. They’ve become a part of me.
They remember the pounding of the concrete as I explored the streets of New York City; they remember the sweet scent of the grass as I walked through fields with my arms around a summer romance; they remember the buzz of the pulsating, synthesized music as I danced without inhibition at a late night concert. These shoes hold memories.
They saw me climb trees and walk through the woods on warm, summer evenings; they heard me sing until my voice gave out at exhausting rehearsals and music lessons; they felt me falter and fumble over myself as I tried to impress certain people; they smelled the crisp new binder paper and fresh ballpoint pens as I sat in class on the first day of school. These shoes hold memories.
They were on my feet on a night not long ago when I lost all control. It was a going away party, for a boy I knew. I had met him over the summer; we spent a lot of time together. When he left, I saw a seventeen-year-old boy ― strong, smart, and infinitely sweet  ― with tears falling from his eyes as he said goodbye to all his friends and wrapped me in a warm embrace. My shoes felt me tremble with loneliness as I stood among the mass of people. These shoes hold memories.
An hour later, I was on the side of the road, waiting for a ride. My head was in my friend’s lap and I felt her gently stroke my hair: I was hysterical. I was angry that I was crying, angry at the feeling of weakness running down my cheeks and splashing on my beautiful shoes; I spat out the wretched salt water that infiltrated my mouth between gasps of air.
When I got to my friend’s house, I stayed outside a while. I smelled the cold September air that was beginning to feel like fall and as I paced the street outside her house I could feel every pebble through my shoes. These shoes hold memories.
These shoes have become a part of me. As they erode before my eyes, I’m filled with sadness: no matter how hard I search, I’ll never find these shoes again; I’ll never make those memories again.
I discovered myself while wearing these shoes; in a way, I’m a lot like them: straightforward, flexible, and always ready to keep moving.