Propped on a wood-plank camp cabin wall, someone said, “Wow, your toes are long.”
Yes. They sure are. These feet of mine are lanky and bony. My wryly toes do not follow rank- the second stands too tall, pushing past its supposed place.
For years I hid them and masked them- no flip-flops or open-toed shoes...
Until, passing through youthful insecurity, I embraced them, useful as they are. After all, I can pick up a toy, open a door, or unscrew a lid with my hands still free; I have to say, this is a useful skill for a mother of three.
They have carried me miles and miles crammed in shoes for running, they have gripped balance beams and yoga mats and pushed me through the water
(no fins necessary).
My feet encounter love tangled at the bottom of the sheets. Sometimes my feet are cold, sometimes his feet are scaly. But each night they again brush together, reuniting and familiar.
My feet meet the little feet of my children as they stand side by side. The feet that once poked and kicked the lining of my womb, now explore their own unique ground. These little feet that once fit in the palm of my hand, now grow and change as they discover a life of their own.
I remember feet. They tell a person’s story. My Grandmothers feet were swollen and over-worked, my Mother’s beautiful, shapely, and often bare. My Father’s- always dry, and one in his hand, as he sits cross-legged on the floor. I can see my sister’s feet and mine sole to sole- playing on the couch- hers blistered from dancing, yet still similar to mine.
These feet are each my feet- our stories are shared.
Yes, my toes are long and my feet lanky.
But where I once saw shame, I now see beauty.