My slippers wait for me by the couch, open, one foot away from adventure. We rely on one another, my slippers and I – they for movement and I for warmth.
Do they agree with where I’ve taken them today? We’ve been into the kitchen, back and forth from counter to sink, a mere hair’s breadth away from one another (a swivel really), and into the living room where they wait for me now by the ottoman, open.
Where will our next excursion take us? To the bedroom perhaps, or to the front door. Will they be content to remain at the threshold, still open, still waiting, while I don the boots and step out into the snow?
Slippers are not feeling things. But I am.
I like for you to take me with you when you go.