If an essay was a pedicure, it would read like this
"I love being barefoot. Have you walked barefoot on wet grass or land that is softened by cow dung? It is yummy."
I'm the girl with dry and dirty feet. Not as dirty and as calloused as you just imagined. But well on their way. Their only mistake is that they are the farthest from my most beloved organ, my brain. If my feet were dangling off my neck, downwards, as if brain walking into heart, I'd take better care of them.
But now, the toenails grow till they become weapons of destruction and I could not be less bothered.
I’ve kept many foot creams under the bed. But if I touched my feet at night, my circuit would be complete, I’d feel whole, and you see, I’m addicted to my brokenness.
I am so up in my head, that down there, my feet ache.
When I was a child and my feet would hurt, my father would press my toe-tips for relief. Mother would say all the nerves and muscles culminate into the toes. A foot masseuse and an acupuncturist can access your entire body through the points on your feet. But who has time for such nonsense?
The fact of feet is a fact I forget, except when I read romance. Then, I need those toes to curl at the right places.
I’m also a girl who does not wear slippers. It feels like I’m wearing giant erasers under my feet. Like I’m eating a burger with the wrapper still on. I love being barefoot. Have you walked barefoot on wet grass or land that is softened by cow dung? It is yummy.
Wet earth is the chocolate ice cream for the feet. Sand is pure, granular sensation. Even the Lizol clean floor of a city apartment is a lovely surface to take the feet for a little ride, after hours and hours of sedentary work. Also wise to rotate the feet, sometimes, clockwise and anticlockwise.
I thank the day I invested in good shoes that have finally spared my tiniest toes from being mushed into their older siblings. Our pinky toes have their own identity, in the grand landscape of our body.
I have started wearing anklets occasionally. The chhun chhun chhun of anklets is the only sound of femininity I’ve enjoyed.
When I press into the floor with my feet, I feel less alone. When I reach for them in a yoga pose, I say sorry to them for stubbing them on every bed corner and door, when I am distracted by the latest email.
My feet are small, and patiently hold the trunks of my thighs and a big bum and an indifferent torso. I thank them when I wash them with soap, my fingers going in the remote spaces between my toes.
Once in a purple moon, I paint my toenails too.
This essay responds to the prompt ‘Feet’ given to us by in Bavaal Writers’ Salon.
Write with
and in Memoir Workshop. 💚🌼
Oh, your words are so alive! I love this and I am wriggling my toes in recognition. The sound of your anklet, the image of feet closer to your head— I feel these! Thank you for the laughter and subtle nudge to “ close that circuit(!!!!)” and thank my toes.
"But if I touched my feet at night, my circuit would be complete, I’d feel whole, and you see, I’m addicted to my brokenness." In love with this logic and how it is put into words. My goodness!