Object-ives #27: The Sneakers That Traipse on Without My Grandma

How an old pair of shoes became impossible to part with

Mar 20, 2026

My gray Nike sneakers have been sun-scorched into more of a green-ish brown. The trim is beginning to fray. The insoles are starting to stink a little bit. The outsoles are worn; someday in the not-too-distant future, there will be holes.

Objectively, it’s time to get new shoes. They were secondhand to begin with, and I’ve had them for nearly three years. I’ve put thousands of miles on them, millions of steps. Yet I can’t bear to part with them.

They became mine in 2023 during a trip within a trip—from Los Angeles to Minnesota to visit my family, and from my hometown to Spirit Lake, Iowa, for an errand run with my mom and Grandma Marge. It was part of their routine, which I was delighted to crash whenever I came home. They would pick up groceries at Walmart and Hy-Vee, we would peruse Consignment Corner, we’d get a little treat—a soda and maybe a small snack—and then we’d head back to Jackson.

On one of those jaunts, I bought my Nikes from the consignment store, and when I look at them, I’m right back in those memories. Sitting in the middle seat of the minivan, chatting with the two generations in front, helping my grandma with her walker, watching her hunt for the perfect blouse (she had impeccable taste), listening to her cute “Mmm” noises of vocal appreciation when I shared my potato wedges or chicken strips, taking in the simple bliss.

In April 2024, my grandma died of heart failure after a fall. Her decline happened so fast, I couldn’t comprehend it until I was cuddling with her cold body—mere hours from life. I wasn’t ready for it to be the end. Almost two years without her, I’m still not ready. It seems impossible. Time can be so cruel.

I was so lucky to grow up in the same small town with both grandmas and a grandpa. This meant lots of extended family dinners. Sick days watching soap operas with Grandma Marge. Countless errand runs to Walmart, Shopko, or the nursery for landscaping supplies. Even back when I was a kid, I knew this time together was special. As I got older, I came to understand it as the tremendous privilege it was. But I’d never had to go without; it seemed like they would always be around.

In 2016, my other grandma passed away. I love my grandparents so much. After my Grandma Betty died, I was devastated, especially since I was too poor to travel home very often in my early adulthood. But after her death, I started making it a higher priority. I didn’t like to go more than six months at a time, at the absolute most, without visiting my Grandma Marge. I would send her word finds (her favorite) and flowers in my absence.

I got eight additional years with Grandma Marge, but I was greedy for more. I thought I still had at least a handful more in my future. I had projects I wanted to do with her. Conversations I wanted to have. Time I wanted to spend in her vicinity. But those wishes would remain unfulfilled.

I have stuff to remember her by—her wedding ring, some of her chic sweaters, a couple of old journals, one of her paintings, her finger imprint on a necklace—all of which I cherish. But these smelly shoes have become their own kind of precious heirloom.

Intellectually, I know having such a deep attachment to objects is ridiculous. I watched the funeral home take my grandma’s body away with just the pajamas she died in, and she couldn’t even bring those with her; I’m sure they were burned along with her when she was cremated. None of us will make it out of this life with the shirt on our backs, much less the body that wore it.

But I’m still here, and I miss sharing life with my grandma. So I will keep walking in my Grandma Marge-anointed Nikes until they fall apart, and maybe beyond, thinking of her every time I lace them up.

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