Feet

My brother claims that orange-striped Oliver has ugly feet. It is true that since the day he came to live with us as a sick little widget befrought with diarrhea, a boistrous purr, and the kind of eyes, that, as my mother says, often become "fuzzy" with lovey-ness, I too have giggled much over his sillyness, helping with the undignifyingly fond names such as "the Big Cheese" and "Beatrice Bunnyhoffer"--but somehow I cannot quite bring myself to pick on the cozy toes that have brought such a bounteous splotch of orange into my life.

I have been chuckled at lovingly for my feet too, one dear one commenting that the height of my arch makes my foot rather capable of shaking hands, another observing that my toes are calculated to a rather interesting angle. But they are good feet. My sister read somewhere once that high arches tend to make for the longest lasting feet, and I might add as well that my toes seem to like my own shoes quite well. Then too, these feet have carried me for twenty years although I have steadily given them more to bear, have resiliently returned to their pinkish state although I have been foolish enough to subject them to the larger feet and blue bruises of half-tonnish creatures, have remained tender to feeling although I have gritted my teeth and allowed the blisters of rain-filled hiking shoes to overcome them; and they have learned to drive standard, have been poked by rocky-stream beds, and have curled up in wool socks on cold winter nights and clammy-footed othernights.

Most importantly, my feet are learning. They are developing a voice and an action, taking me sometimes to those who need encouragement, and discovering even before I have caught up with them that to be shod with the gospel of peace is more pleasant than to barefootedly arch themselves over the thistles--somehow, even as they gain more earthly scars, they are becoming more beautiful...

I will see Oliver in about two months, and perhaps, like the last time I squeaked up our porch steps, his will be the first loving eyes to halt me, and his the first feet to step on my own in his version of a hug, flipping around my foot, hugging it with all four paws, and attempting to disembowel it. I don't know. But this crazy thought keeps telling me that I needn't fear--that my feet can tread as lightly as his amongst the crackling leaves of October, shining with the sprouting fuzziness of Love.