My Mother's Feet

I have my mother's feet.

Feet that I always thought were crusty and gross. With heels that were rough and cracked, and ridgy toenails that were constantly exposed in her ever-present flip-flops, toenails that I wished she would paint. No matter how much lotion was applied, no matter how often she worked across the callouses with the pumice stone that sat on the edge of the bathtub, my mother's feet were tough.

I have my mother's feet.

Feet that I was proud of in my youth, with their broad, well-shaped toenails perfect for painting. With a strong arch that my dancer-friends envied, a graceful point, and five straight toes descending in height that never hung awkwardly over the edge of open-toed shoes.

Feet that are no longer so pretty.

Feet that are scarred from bunion surgery, that ached and throbbed in exponentially increasing intensity throughout and following my pregnancy. Feet that pounded the pavement at a thankless job that I kept for way too long so as not to interrupt my insurance with a baby on the way.

Feet that go up and down countless flights of stairs, doing countless loads of laundry. Feet that hustle and shuffle up and down the aisles of the grocery store and the big box
stores, hauling decidedly unglamorous bags of necessities to and from the trunk of the car.

I have my mother's feet.

Feet with heels that are rough and cracked, and uneven toenails that are rarely painted. Feet that swell painfully after a night spent in towering heels, that embrace the comfort and ease of flip flops the following day. Feet that are permanently calloused. Feet that will carry my child when he's too tired to walk, that will hustle and shuffle to keep him safe, happy, and healthy no matter the sacrifice. Feet that are tough.

I have my mother's feet.