The boy in my science class has shoes the color of slightly burnt salmon. The laces on his right foot are longer than the ones on his left, and no matter how many times he ties them, they always drag on the floor. In gym class, while we were running a lap, I noticed the outsole of his shoe was coming apart. At lunch, I saw him taping it back together. There are faded Sharpie scribbles on the sides that I can tell have been there for years.

Some people make fun of him. Some teachers send notes home to his parents. I just so happened to be in the office when the principal called him in. He sat down with the guidance counselor, who gently asked if he needed help and mentioned resources available for his family.

The boy just shook his head. “These shoes were my father’s.” he replied, then assured them everything was fine.

I didn’t hear anything more after that, and I never found the courage to ask him why that was so important.

I think what he means is that he doesn’t see them as an inconvenience. He doesn’t see the torn seams, the ripped tongues. He sees that his father once wore them, once walked in them, once existed in them.

And that’s all that matters.