Beige and worn we sit on a shelf, third from the bottom, in a dark closet,

Patiently awaiting our next adventure.

We were made to for a girl who wears flowery sundresses and sits still

Not this globe-trotting ruffian,

But we don’t mind.

Because we’ve walked her through the security lines of airports,

Supported her as she walked up the steps of a Roman coliseum,

And been clutched in her hand as she jumped off an eighty foot cliff into the Mediterranean.

 

Our surface has been tortured by Middle Eastern sand and hot desert sun.

Our soles are loose

From one too many spontaneous mountain climbs in the Sierra Nevadas.

Our unpleasant smell originated from a misstep

While dancing in a sheep pasture in Keswick.

And our formerly camel color is much more of a dirty brown now

From all of the mud puddles we’ve splashed in on cold British days.

It’s obvious that leather wasn’t supposed to get wet.

The tiniest beginnings of a hole have appeared in our heel.

Cliff scaling in Edinburgh was certainly a contributing factor.

We walked her down the aisle of a funeral home

Toward the urn that used to be her grandmother

And held her feet still as her knees shook.

We protected her feet as she ran through forests in England,

Fields in Scotland,

Beaches in Spain,

Deserts in Jordan,

Markets in Ghana,

And the backyard of her childhood home.

 

Now here we sit,

But we don’t have to wait long.

She puts us on, grabs her dusty backpack,

And we walk down the familiar steps and out the big, brown front door.