The Life of M

When I first started driving, I drove with—in? using?—bare feet. Wearing shoes threw off my equilibrium; I accelerated too fast and braked too abruptly. When I would drive, I would wrap my toes around the pedal, like fingers and hands, testing the weight of the power of the car. These are the things I find sacred: feet and cars. 

The way people drive says a lot about them. They’re fast and impatient, they’re slow and determined, they’re reckless or careful. 

My feet say everything about me. There’s not a single thing you could read on my palms that you couldn’t find in my feet. They’re tough and, more often than not, dirty. My foot is wide but steady, my arch average. I’ve had more scars than I can remember on my feet, some that have faded and some that have not. The toenails are sporadically painted and the toes nicely formed. I’ve sliced them, blistered them, burned them, burdened them. I have a birthmark on the arch of my left foot that you wouldn’t expect. 

My feet take me further than I ever could’ve thought possible. There’s a strength there, in my soles, that every day takes me by surprise. I can’t tell you the multitude of lessons I’ve learned from cars: how to change the oil, check the fluids, how things work, how people change, how to be prepared, about consequences and friendship and bawling your eyes out. 

Together, the things I find sacred, feet and cars, take me further than I would’ve let myself go.