"These boots were made for... walking?" as I stumbled forward with my torso leaning forward fully intended to step forward, except the boots didn't budge.

Gandalf-ish, standing at 7 feet tall with a willowy body shape swept behind me and leaned next to my right ear, whispered, "fly, you fool!"

I looked down, before my head could answer how the hell do I do THAT? The boots shot out feathered wings from each ankle, and it started flapping. "GANDALF-ISH!" I yelled in fear, as I've been knocked off my balance and now hanging in the air upside down with my feet fighting each other to pull me left, right, up, down.

Gandalf-ish sighed and bellowed, "BEHAVE!"

My boots snapped together and swung me upright, flapping its swings in unison, I breathe out and could feel my body relaxed, "Thanks...I needed that."

I think my grandmother is magic. Maybe she's a fairy, but who knows. All I know is that two days after I was born, she arrived on my mother's doorstep and gave her a shoebox. I still have that shoebox. It is a tiny wooden box, painted in flowing swirls with forest greens and ocean blues. It's so pretty, the pattern feels magical, but it's nothing compared to what was within.

When my mother opened the box, she found a pair of tiny leather boots, just the right size for my tiny baby feet. They fit me perfectly, and mother used to say that I stopped crying the moment she put them on me. I seemed to be happier wearing those boots than any of the woollen baby booties knitted by my various doting aunties. I was so small back then that there wasn't much I did, other than cry and kick. No sooner had my mother put those boots on me, she says, than I kicked her right in the chin with them. Those boots were made for kicking.

As I grew, so did the boots. They always seemed to be a perfect fit. Never too small, never too big, always just right. Soon, I started crawling. I would crawl around on the floor, get under everyone's feet, and make a right nuisance of myself. But I was inseparable from those boots. I would even wear them to bed. I would have had a bath with them, if my mother had let me. That, she refused to do. But I wouldn't let her scrub me unless I could see them sitting next to me on the bathroom bench. And as soon as she finished, and they were back on my feet, I'd go right back to crawling around on the floor, and getting in the way. Those boots were made for crawling.

Once I learnt to walk, they were still my favourite shoes. Whenever my mother tried to buy me other shoes, some mishap would happen to them, and I'd go right back to wearing my boots. They were so comfortable. And I never had a single blister from them, either. What I never told my mother, was that what happened to my other shoes was only half deliberate. I'm a tad adventurous, and the other shoes just couldn't take the beating, while my boots seemed to be indestructible. Those boots were made for walking.

As I grew older, I got other siblings, and then I started school. At school, I learnt to get up to all kinds of mischief. My favourite was climbing the trees in the hedge that encircled the school yard. I loved to see how high I could go. I'd hide up there for hours, even after the bell had rung, and no-one could find me. And then I'd come home and teach my siblings how to climb too. One day, we were climbing the tall yew tree in our back yard, when I slipped and fell out of the tree, breaking my arm. The doctor couldn't keep me in bed for more than two days. My mother caught me back out there, climbing that tree, cast and all. Those boots were made for climbing.

Eventually, I joined the school athletic team. I loved athletics, particularly sprinting. By the time I reached my senior year of high school, I'd aced the local and regional champs, and was competing for a national placement. But I refused to wear track shoes. Only my boots. It's a wonder I didn't get disqualified, but I guess people thought running in boots was a disadvantage. Those boots were made for running.

After I left school, I got a job. I still insisted on wearing my boots, but life wasn't so interesting any more. No-one cared so much if I wore my boots everywhere. But then, I learnt how to dance. I danced to jazz, and I danced to folk, but my favourite was classical ballroom. I loved the swish and the sway of the dances, and the beautiful melodies of the music. One day, I met a handsome, young fellow at a ball, and we danced together for the rest of the evening. I began to encounter him more frequently, and eventually we found love for each other, and married. On our wedding night, we danced through the night, until the sun rose. Those boots were made for dancing.

Now, I am old. I sit here in my armchair by the fire, and tell stories of what I've seen in life and where these boots have taken me. Though once they may have kicked, and crawled, and walked, and climbed, and run, and danced, all these boots do now is keep my feet warm by the fire, and help me remember. I think my grandmother knew, because these boots are made for sitting, too. And for remembering.

my mom's always told me to wear better shoes / no more flip-flops - they'll give you plantar fasciitis, she says / and those boots, they used to be hers / before they wore out the arches of her feet / we've worn the same size shoe since I was in 6th grade / I was 12 when I started borrowing my mom's shoes / those boots, the ones I'm telling you about now / they're black and faux-suede. they make my legs look longer / on the metro from Vienna to L'enfant / I'm wearing fishnets and a jean skirt/ it's 2018. My mom doesn't know this / I changed my outfit in the car / the skirt isn't mine either, it's Hannah's / she gave me the skirt and the stick-and-poke tattoo 2 months prior / that my mom doesn't know about either / she's already not fond of the nose ring / neither of them hurt as much as I thought they would / the boots hurt more. I took them off mid-show / the concert. I can't remember where it was held, but it was St. Patrick's Day / we went to another the following Saturday and I wore different shoes / a different outfit of Hannah's too / the boots are in my mom's closet. they're mine, but I don't have anywhere to put my own shoes / nor do I have anywhere to wear them / I don't live near DC anymore / I don't close my eyes on the escalator / I don't get lost in Chinatown / I don't go to the midnight showing of an awful and wonderful movie on Valentine's Day / I don't wear those boots anymore / my feet hurt. my mom was right /I wear her sneakers instead

Today is the day

I break free from your control,

your manipulation,

your deliciously crafted lies.

Yes,

today I am Nancy -

and I've strapped my boots on

nice and tight.

These boots were once for walking. Long ago, perhaps. Now they hold feet, attached to ankles, but no body to contend with. Alone, yet together, the perfect pair, or quadrant I suppose. But what was I meant to do? My two bestfriends. I thought I could trust them. They claimed they weren’t “together”, not now, not ever. So when I found out what was I to do? They were all I had. And they would leave me. Alone. And they insisted on those stupid matching boots. Red meant love for them, rage for me. A pair for each, obtained in our trip around the world.Then why did I not get any? Four boots doesn’t work out for three people. A pair is two, never three. Two’s a party, Three’s a crowd. I knew sooner or later they would get sick of me. Take their perfect little relationship to the next country, or across the globe. They can’t leave if they don’t have feet. So what if they’re dead? Just the three of us, together forever.