Torn, shiny, tiny and not-quite-white; the echoing sounds of the shoes resonating from the people closest to me. Nico, my younger brother, has a fearless spirit. He is a puppy, blind to danger but magnetized to risk. His shoes, black Vans, rip and tear the day after he buys them. Running through the gray gravel, attempting front-flips out on the lawn, pushing his skateboard and driving his go kart– he is carefree and venturesome.

Papa’s shoes are not torn or ripped but they are shiny and solid, a put-together and welcoming style. His genuinely caring, soft and sweet personality is in the pure white soles of his shoes. His shoes– clean, stiff and familiar-- the ones that I hobbled around in when I was holding my head high, standing two feet tall, feeling untouchable as if wearing Papa’s gigantic shoes gave me a superpower.

Mom’s shoes are tiny, just like the rest of her. But, her petite frame does not symbolize her personality. She is a crack of lightning, a jolt of energy, like hearing my favorite song when it comes on the radio. She takes up less space on Earth than most, but she fills the entire world with her energy and spirit.

I am my not-quite-white shoes. I promise myself I will keep them clean and taken care of, but over time my ambition and promise to myself fades along with the graying and yellowing of my shoes. I try to be the perfect version of myself, to keep my life completely organized– to keep my shoes white. To just keep my shoes white.