I spend my youth barefoot. Tanned toes and weathered heels. Later in life my children will pick at the dead skin, but that’s decades away. Presently, my toes are gripping the grass as I laugh at something forgettable a cute boy is saying over a keg.
I marry a different boy years later. Barefoot, with rose petals like satin under both of our soles. We play footsie during our vows.
But my poor old feet, I look at them now and remember: purple toenails and jewelry, burgeoned veins and loosened skin, tickling and foot rubs – a life well lived.