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My grandpa died a few months ago. Growing up he didn’t have shoes until well into his teenage years. That is how poor he was. He grew up in the middle of nowhere, born into a country under severe dictatorship that kept everyone not only poor, but afraid. He never had shoes, he grew up used to not having them and not using them and this is how he was all his life. He’d wear them outside but as soon as he was home, you’d never see the man with any on. Me and my brother basically grew up and were raised in his house, with him and my grandma, and every single time as soon as we walked in he would take our shoes off. It bothered him, almost like shoes were constraining and being barefoot was so much more comfortable. So this small action turned into a habit. If I could not wear shoes I would. I’m always barefoot, and my habits now carry on to my children who are almost always barefoot. Today I sat in the living room looking at them, thinking of this exact thing - how such a small little action that nobody would think much about, carries such a long story, has so much meaning to it. It’s such a silly little thing, but every single time I come home to finally rid myself of the shoes I have on, I think of him, and I’m grateful for this, that even though he isn’t here, there is still so much of me that tells of his story, of who he was, what he did, what he was like, and I cherish it. Feminist Turned Housewife