I have small feet, size 4, according to the Kenyan accreditation. They stopped growing when I was around 12. Someone once asked me if I had a problem with balance *cue tumbleweed* They aren’t that small.
My toe nails are painted coral which has a tint of gold captured perfectly by the
light.The big toe on my left foot is scraped at the tip because when I’m home, I tend to watch TV belly to floor and it gets worn by constant contact.
I have a prominent arc, which I used to think would lead me toward the life of a ballerina. Sometimes, I arc my feet in the air and pretend to do some elaborate move.
I favour open shoes but my heel bares the dark scar of my attempt to venture into closed shoes.
If I look closely enough, I will see the faint scar on my left foot, the only reminder of the time I was 3 and accidentally overturned a pot of boiling dog food on myself.
On the heel of my right foot is a memoir for the one and only time I visited the emergency room after landing on a whole glass after jumping off the double decker.
My feet have a story.My story. I alone know how it is to have my feet. I know the pain of constantly hitting my toes on uneven sidewalks. Or the pinch of heels that are beautiful but cut off proper circulation ( death by beauty). I love my feet. But there are those moments when I find what I think is the perfect pair of shoes and I’m already pairing it up with the dress hanging in my closet before I even fit them for size. Then it turns out that they don’t fit and in my head, I start hatching a plot to make them fit. But at the end of the day, I have to let them go and go look for my own perfect pair.