If Objects Had Feelings

If objects had feelings my old sneakers would probably sigh with relief, remembering the miles we’ve walked together, the dirt roads and rain puddles we splashed in. But they’d also wince with every scuff, each step a reminder of how much time has passed.

If objects had feelings that old t-shirt, pushed to the back of the drawer, would be fixated on the stain where it was once pure white. It would ache where its threads have been ripped apart, forming a finger-sized hole, that somehow keeps getting bigger.

If objects had feelings I’d constantly apologize to my poor car for constantly slamming her doors, for letting her get so dirty, for letting her sit in my driveway when she's made for adventure.

If objects had feelings, I’d probably apologize to them often—each dish left in the sink too long, every chair I’ve left tucked in too tight. Every zipper that doesn't zip anymore is just left to hang there with no purpose. I’d try to explain that I didn’t mean to forget about them, that it’s not their fault they’ve been replaced, outgrown, left behind, or used to the point they are unusable.

But maybe, just maybe, if objects had feelings, they’d understand. They see that I’m wearing thin too. That I've got scuffs, I've been outgrown, & replaced too. Maybe we could have some sort of mutual understanding and just sort of “get each other.” maybe, just maybe they'd see I have feelings too.