Lost Among the Patches

The patches on my shoes and their raggedness are the remnants of years gone by; I have sewn so many patches onto them that the shoes themselves are lost among the layers.

A few days ago, as I stepped out of my house—located in a remote village—I headed down the path that leads to my vegetable cart. This path is so treacherous that every few days, it adds a new patch to my shoes. My shoes speak to me every day; they have become the companions of my pain and suffering, carrying the burden of my journey daily without making a sound. Even on days when their stitches grew loose, I would go to the cobbler; my shoes would endure the piercing of the cobbler's iron awl and the heavy weight of those sturdy threads upon their body, yet they never complained or uttered a word. They knew that these strikes were, in truth, a balm for their wounds, allowing them to remain the companions of my pain and loyal friends for just a few days more. They know all too well how hard one must strive just to earn a morsel of bread.

One day, a wealthy man came to my cart to buy vegetables. At that moment, my shoes stared with deep envy at the rich man's shoes; it was as if they wanted to speak of these ancient patches that had suffocated them for years. But the onslaught of those very patches had blocked their way to speak, leaving nothing but their gaze. A gaze that drifted back to the days of color, polish, fragrance, and the cry of freshness; the days when they were spending the prime of their youth. But now, they had become so old, worn, and shattered, reaching the end of the line... shoes that were no longer mine.

Fahim Arezou

May 20, 2026