Those White High Tops Whose Laces I Never Tie

When I was 12,
My favorite pair of shoes
Also happened to be my only pair of shoes.

I liked that they were so old their soles were coming
Off of the actual shoe
Because I had walked that much in them.

I liked that it was so beaten
That it shows how many times
They've been packed
And washed
And squashed into dog poop
Or gum in the school hallway.

I have more shoes now.
But they're still my favorite.

I remember when I first got them
From my dad after
I begged him for weeks.

He told me he knew I knew
I could make him do whatever I wanted
And he planted the lightest kiss on my forehead
And it felt like an achievement of some kind.

And I held his hand for maybe an hour after that
Because it felt like that's what it was there for.

And he still feels like heavy snow
On a school morning
Or maybe
Someone who's been through so much
But still ended up staying.