The sole had begun to whisper before it screamed. First, it was just a slight flapping on the wet pavement—a soft, wet kiss of leather separating from rubber. Then came the sock. You feel the cold, gritty texture of the sidewalk through thinning cotton long before you see the dime-sized hole. When I finally turned the shoe over, the toe was yawning open like a hungry mouth, revealing the soft, vulnerable underbelly of the insole.
The instinct, honed by years of advertising, is to scroll for a replacement. But the numbers in the banking app says that there is no room for "new" right now.
I sat on the back of my house with a tube of Shoe Goo, a popsicle stick, and the weight of necessity. Squeezing the clear, chemical-smelling adhesive into the gap, I was buying time. I clamped the toe shut with a clip and waited.
The next morning, when I lace it up, the ground stays outside. The sole holds. There is a profound, quiet dignity in a shoe that has been asked to carry on just a little bit further. It is a pact between the worn-out and the weary. Keep going, it whispers back with every solid, glued-together step. Better times are coming. Until then we walk on.
