Everybody in our family has different shoes.  My mother’s shoes are cozy--soft, fluffy shoes like cotton candy. And me, my shoes are like a baby’s bottom--squeaky clean. Kara’s shoes are small. Fitted to her elf feet.
Taylor’s shoes are...Which pair? She has too many.

But my father’s shoes, my father’s shoes, like two Ford F-150s, like a fort knox for your feet all old and worn out because he would rather keep the same kicks than purchase a pricier pair, remind you of the scent of oil and gasoline as he walks by, remind you of what a handyman is--a healthy mix of stingy and function. With every klickity-klack old memories of woodworking and oil changes resurface. The klickity-klack, the stinginess and function, and my father’s shoes that smell like oil and gasoline.