The shoes I wear when the calls come in

They’re not special—black, rubber-soled, no logo. But they’ve been on my feet for eight years, through three shifts a day, every day. I remember the first time I noticed how the left heel had worn down just enough to make me stumble if I didn’t watch it. Not a problem now—just part of the rhythm. Last week, someone asked if I’d ever considered replacing them. I said no. They’re not about comfort. They’re about memory: the way the floor feels under you when the world goes quiet after a call. I don’t know why that matters. But it does.