I have a fondness for broken-in things.
Rickety bridges. Rutted trails.
The smell of wood stoves.
Dog-eared pages of books.
Coffee that’s so hot it burns your tongue.
Hugs where you can bury your head and inhale and remember where you are.
Maybe I have a fondness for the things that feel worn in because I am just like them in a way: Not slick. Imperfect. Dented and dinged and still here.
Weather and worn just means something has lasted longer than anyone thought it would. I love thinking about all the feet that have run on paths before mine. And how they all left a mark in some way.
The more worn in, the more beautiful to me.