I don’t often think about my feet until they talk back. There’s the occasional bruise, or such matters of aging like bunions, fallen arches, and plantar fasciitis. Regardless of the insult, our feet convey our heft through life but the first person narrator in these stories takes a perspective closer to the soul. Rich imagery and memory weave a series of stories as child, wife and mother. While the image of feet links these stories, here’s an image that stuck with me. The language evokes a parent’s conflicting feelings during the teenage-rearing years: “My heart, a leathery pouch as wrinkled as a hobbit’s purse, hiding hope, and maybe a dagger.” Read it here at Agni Online.