You have so many now. A whole row of them by the door, lined up like soldiers. When did you get so many feet?
The white ones are for running. But you don't run. You said running was flying with the ground still holding on. You said you'd race the dog forever. The dog is not here anymore and neither is the running.
I see the shiny black ones. Those are for when you have to be serious. You hated serious. You said grown-ups wore their scary faces on purpose.
But wait. The green ones by the back. The ones caked in mud on the bottom. You went outside in those. You went somewhere with hills. There is a leaf stuck in the laces and you didn't pick it out, which means you were somewhere that had so many leaves that one more didn't matter.
You still go looking for the good dirt. You still come home with a leaf.
Can I try them on?
Can you take me next time?