Earlier today, Sarah Cook and I were speculating on all things important in the world. Being a future novelist, and the closest thing I know to an expert on Russian Literature, she brought some colorful insight to a subject I have yet to really engage. A person's feet have a lot to say. Essays could be written on the character or current emotional state of a person citing only the location, placement, choice of shoe.
Currently, I have one foot sitting atop a hard wooden table. The other foot is resting just above the floor on the panel reserved for local magazines and dust collection. Four-year-old, white Nike running shoes, stained silver by a year of work with steel, are held on my foot by soot-stained laces in a loosely tied single knot.
I don't know what this says about me … but that's because because I loath internal analysis (and elipses).
It could speak of my emotion toward my last leg of life in Waco. A moment of rest after five years of hard work and investment in a community so near to my heart that I am completely comfortable and at ease, even at home.
My feet, though, do not tell the whole story. At least not yet. If Providence allows, and September ever comes, someone will observe a pair of brown leather boots covered in a pair of white-washed wranglers waiting in a terminal at Heathrow or stepping foot in Germany for the first time. They will be on the way back to Iraq.
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