From the plastic bag inside of a shoebox at the bottom of my closet, my classic red TOMS are a time capsule. The faded color, the holes where my big toes rubbed, and the worn-down rubber soles hold all of the secrets of growing up. They are the sweat of hot high school classrooms.They hold the tunes of summer’s music festivals and the torrential rain that waterlogged our camping tent. They’ve entrapped the dirt of country walks at dusk and the grass stains of star gazing. My red TOMS are the smiles I shared with him, and the tears when I finally walked away. They keep the prayers and dreams and wishes of a young girl growing into a young woman. They hold blood. The tread-free soles are thousands of steps in the right direction. My red TOMS are heartbreak and sunny days and laughter and that echoing voice that tell’s a girl she’s either not good enough or the best thing in the world.
