I HATE FEET
A Love Letter
The look, the smell, the touch. Nothing is more unappealing to me.
When I was a child I used to play in the mud, squish the soil and water between my toes, dirt finding its way beneath my toenails as the sole of my foot became one with the Earth. My mother always made me clean myself before I came back inside, afraid I would dirty the carpet or ruin the furniture.
As I became older I continued to stay barefoot. The feeling of wispy strands lightly tickling the skin where I stood, the breeze flowing by as it made contact with my heels, the restless feeling of a never ending tomorrow waiting for the last peak of the sun across the sky.
I remember when you removed your shoes and walked across the stream, your feet gliding through the current, tiny fish curious about this new stranger in their home as the cats guarded the entrance to their realm. A giant? A visitor? Certainly nothing but good could come.
I remember when I was shivering and you created a bridge of rocks for me to walk across. You were worried that I would freeze and catch cold, and aimed to do whatever you could to prevent that.
Strands of sunlight glistened through the dancing leaves, trickling rays streaking my skin in crooked lines. Your eyes looked at me with such wonder, and your face brightened when I told you I loved you.
I looked at your shoes, against the river bank and rocks, green elements encompassing your thoughts. There weren’t any socks. You had planned to keep me warm all along.
And as the leaves fell from the trees, saying their last goodbyes, I couldn’t help but stare. I hated feet. But I could never dream of hating yours.