My Two Feet

The box sits at the very top of my closet. Out of sight, out of mind... supposedly. My height - 5 "4 - doesn't stop me from checking the contents of the box every morning. I pull my stool away from my bookshelf (build things with regard for short people!) and thrust open my freshly painted closet doors. I shove the stool against my dresser and stand on my tip toes to reach the battered cardboard.

Ugh! I give a lunge and the box slides toward my fingertips.

The stool wobbles.

I slip.

The box drops.

With a loud thud I landed ungracefully on the floor. Well, at least I got the box.

I rolled over on my side and sat up.

The box isn't much, just old cardboard with a faded logo of some tiny shoe store. Yet it holds my greatest discontent.

I flip open the lid and stare at the boots. They're pretty, and also simple. The material is plain black leather, with a stamped floral pattern at the top. They are flat soled, not offering much extra height (sigh) and stop just before they hit my knees. Layla says I'm lucky the height of the boots isn't a problem, she could never get those boots past her calves. I always shove her when she says that - she likes to pretend she's fat, but she is far from it. She would probably wear these boots much better then me. No, not probably, definitely. Despite her ever constant worry that she's fat, Layla is beautiful. She has shoulder length silky black hair with touches of amber and coffee and rich, dark honey skin. Her eyes are wide and dark and she has a way of walking that turns heads. She's always wanted to be an actress, ever since we were little, and she's perfect at it.

Me, I'm more quiet. My mousy brown hair is cut into a short bob, and there's a bit at the back the sticks up. Just a single strand, sort of like an anime girl's, according to Layla. I'm not sure if it's cute or annoying. My eyes are a quiet gray and all I wear is big hoodies and shorts with leggings. The writer.

When we were little, Layla and I would make short films. I would do a screenplay an she would play the central role. I would play the supporting side roles, or sometimes we would rope our little siblings into helping us. We always, however, made my big brother be the camera man.

Even then, she outshone me. I used to think to myself, if she was the sun, then I was the moon. I was still bright, but in a quiet, peaceful way that is rarely noticed. And, of course, the reason why I shone was because of her.

Layla was the one who convinced me to buy the boots. We'd had an eventful day, starting with us sneaking out of our dorms and getting an early breakfast. We were playing hooky from class, as college had been preventing us from seeing each other as much as we used to.

After breakfast, we went shopping. We tried on hats and dresses, and laughed and giggled. We visited the aquarium and pointed out the sleeping octopi and pulled our faces in imitation of sharks and turtles. We danced on the rims of fountains and sampled gelato.

When it got dark, we went to the movies... I think we watched three. When we finally decided to call it quits and go back to our dorms, the stars were fighting against the bright city lights and peeking through the smog and clog. We were laughing and talking when she noticed the shoe store. I'm not sure what it was called, I think something to do with a lotus? But we went in, and it had the most beautiful shoes. I tried on the boots as a joke, but Layla looked so impressed. I don't know if I bought the boots because of the look on her face or because of her incessant pleading. Either way, they're mine now... and I've never worn them.

At any rate, every morning, I take out the box and stare at the boots inside. And every morning, I put the boots back. I put them back because I am afraid, afraid of what could happen if I let myself go. Every morning, except today.

I don't know what compelled me. Maybe it was the fall. Did it knock sense into my head or out of it? But I am mesmerized by the texture and feel of the boots as I slide them on. If I hide myself inside my hoodies and gumboots, if those clothes are a shield, then these boots are armor. They tap tap softly on the floor as I walk around. I look through my closet, looking after hoodie after hoodie, shirts and sweaters, trying to find something that is worthy of these boots. A dress, I decide. I should wear a dress... oh, yes.

I pull it off the rack. It's black, like most of my clothes, but in an elegant, mysterious way. There is almost invisible designs in the thin layer of black wispy fabric that is over the thicker, supporting material, designs of birds taking flight.

I am taking flight.

I throw down my hoodie and pull the dress over my head. I struggle with the zipper, finally pulling it to the top. It stops before it hits my knees and clings to me in a way I never would normally be okay with, but I am today.

I brush my hair for once, and put on makeup. I look...

I look like someone who knows themselves. Not a shell of a person anymore, but someone strong. And I feel strong. I decide not to let myself hide anymore. I will be strong, and fierce, and bold.

I'm not sure why, but these boots are breaking the dam of emotions and worry that I have held up inside me for so long. Maybe it's because to me, they symbolize something that I have been afraid to do for so long, that I have now done. I feel as though I'm finally standing on my own two feet.

I go out to face the world, feeling all right.