Boots
The boots had always been there, inside the back door at the bottom of the stairs leading to my friend’s kitchen. We all went visiting through her back door; the front door was reserved for formal visitors. No one remembered when the front door was last used. And so, after her smiling face, the boots were the next things I saw when she opened her door. Silent sentinels, worn and tired, they made no apology for their appearance. The alchemy of time had changed the composition of the soles, and they were brittle and cracked. In contrast, the high-top leather uppers had grown into soft molds of my friend’s feet and ankles. The gouges, nicks, and scrapes had not rendered them less serviceable through the years. In fact, it had been a rare day that they were not called into service. They were a tribute to the lessons taught early…