The Sandals That Carried Me Through A Summer Of Goodbyes

By the time summer arrived, I had become skilled at leaving quietly. I could fold a farewell into the last sip of coffee, the final load of washing, the spare key placed on a kitchen bench. I had learned that goodbyes rarely look cinematic. Often, they look like standing in a hallway while someone says, “Text me when you get home,” although both of you know the shape of the friendship has already changed.

The sandals appeared during an afternoon of indecision. They were soft brown leather, flat-soled and slightly imperfect, with straps that crossed over the top of my feet. I found them in a small shop between a florist and a place selling phone cases, then carried the box home through heat that made the footpath shimmer.

They were practical enough for a summer in Australia, where a quick walk can become an hour beside the water, and a promised five-minute errand can stretch into an entire arvo. I wore them with linen trousers, old denim shorts and a dress I had bought for a wedding that never happened. Soon, they were present for every departure.

Looking back, I think the sandals understood something I did not. They knew that moving forward is rarely graceful. There is dust, sweat, blister cream and the awkwardness of waving from a train platform. There are also small pleasures: cool tiles under tired feet, salt drying on your ankles and the relief of arriving somewhere alone.

A Pair Found In The Heat

The first goodbye belonged to my neighbour, who was moving from Melbourne to Brisbane. Her apartment had been full of half-packed boxes and the faint smell of eucalyptus cleaner. We stood outside on the pavement while a tram rattled past, and she told me she was ready for a warmer life.

“Good on you,” I said, because that is what we say when someone chooses the frightening option. I meant it, though I also wanted to ask her to stay. My sandals carried me home along streets lined with plane trees, the leather warming beneath my soles as if it had absorbed the whole afternoon.

That evening, I noticed a red mark across my foot. It was the first of many. The sandals were not entirely comfortable, but neither was the season. I decided the irritation was part of the arrangement.

Walking Through Familiar Streets

The second goodbye came from a relationship that had been ending in slow motion. We had stopped arguing because we had stopped expecting to be understood. Our conversations became lists of groceries, rent and appointments. On weekends, we walked through the market and pretended to be interested in the same things.

I remember buying peaches and hearing him say, “It’s probably for the best.” People were queuing for coffee nearby, discussing house prices and holiday plans. A child was crying beside a stall of handmade jewellery. Everything continued with the ordinary confidence of a Saturday morning.

Later, I walked home in my sandals, carrying a paper bag that had begun to soften at the bottom. The streets were familiar, but I felt newly misplaced in them. Every corner held an old version of us: the bakery where we shared almond croissants, the cinema with sticky floors, the bench where he once promised we would never become strangers.

The Sound Of Leaving

The third goodbye was louder. A friend hosted a farewell at a rented house near the coast, where everyone sat outside beneath strings of lights. Someone brought a portable speaker, someone else brought too much ice, and the evening filled with the sound of glasses touching and people talking over one another.

The next morning, I walked barefoot across the lawn until a sharp piece of grass persuaded me to find my sandals. They were damp from the dew. I slipped them on and drove towards the beach, stopping at a service station for an iced coffee and sunscreen.

The Australian summer has a way of making sadness look bright. The sky was intensely blue, the water almost metallic, and families were dragging boogie boards towards the sand. I watched a couple argue about parking while a teenager called everyone “mate” without irony. Somewhere behind me, a radio announced end-of-season sales. The world offered no pause for private grief.

Small Lessons From Blisters

The sandals began to wear down near the heel. I could feel every uneven patch of pavement. At first, I treated each blister as evidence that I had chosen badly. Then I began to understand discomfort differently. A blister was a message, not a moral judgement. It said: slow down, adjust the strap, stop pretending you can keep walking forever.

That lesson followed me into other parts of life. I became less willing to remain in conversations that made me feel diminished. I stopped treating exhaustion as proof of devotion. When people left, I allowed their absence to be real instead of turning it into a puzzle I had to solve.

I also started collecting sentences in a notebook. Some belonged to strangers, overheard on buses or outside cafés. Others came from books and essays, including a memorable quote that reminded me how a single line can hold an entire history. Writing gave the departures somewhere to go.

Dressing For The Person I Was Becoming

By late January, I had stopped dressing for the possibility of being recognised by someone from my past. I wore the sandals with a bright cotton skirt and a loose white shirt, even when I was only going to the supermarket. At Woolies, I stood beneath the harsh lights comparing tomatoes while a toddler sang to himself in the next aisle.

There was freedom in dressing without an audience. The sandals became part of that freedom: uncomplicated, slightly scuffed, and reliable enough for errands that became adventures. I wore them to an op shop, where I found a striped shirt that looked like something a more confident version of me might own.

That version was not entirely imaginary. She was already there, walking along the foreshore with a tote bag on her shoulder, buying flowers at the weekend market and accepting that a summer could contain both endings and beginnings.

What The Road Kept

The final goodbye was mine. I left the flat where I had lived through several years of becoming, carrying two boxes to the car and returning for the rest. The room looked larger without my books. Dust outlined the places where furniture had stood. On the balcony, a dry pot plant leaned towards the light.

I wore the sandals because they were the nearest thing I had to a travelling uniform. Their soles had flattened, the straps had softened, and one buckle was beginning to tarnish. Still, they held my feet securely as I crossed the empty rooms.

I did not feel transformed. I felt tired, sunburnt at the shoulders and uncertain about the next address. Yet as I drove away, I understood that objects can become witnesses. Those sandals had carried me through farewells, awkward celebrations, long walks and the private work of starting over. They had kept going because I kept going.

If you have a story about an object that stayed with you through change, send it to Never Date a Writer. Personal memories, relationship reflections and creative pieces often begin with something small: a worn shoe, an old letter, a dress left behind. Sometimes the thing we almost overlook is the thing that knows exactly where we have been.