There are holes in my boots

I think about the clear plastic dishes, old and scratched, and how we used them to store warm just cooked food. The taste of soup and how an hour before knowing that they were many things recently grown. The way a narrow hallway funneled people through and out and how there only on one side were shelves with many books and how next to those shelves, different friends sat in the same old worn chair. I remember the nights, and if you were lucky to be outside, you could see all the stars and even that magnificent hue of white that some call the arm of the galaxy. I can still hear the quiet of the country and the way frogs chose the time right before dusk to unleash their loud throaty songs. Walking there,along ground newly broken, ready to be worked, tall stalks of corn made an never-ending wall of green. Passing by fields of hearty bushes and smiling because some secrets, legal or illegal, are not always bad, and when burned, fade away simply in full white fingers of heavy smoke. The feeling of growing old and then the different feeling you get from still being young enough to learn something new. I think about drives that were comfortable and the broken door of an ageless jeep and how that is okay because in some cases life is better served when some doors are left forever open.

Her sharp nose and the way she smiled. His stocky frame and how I envied him and it was okay because I am a boy and he is a man. The way she smiled and the front of her teeth were just a bit chipped away. The way he pulled his hair back and the way he liked to say certain words. The way they spoke to each other, fast, aggressive, and with it’s own rhythm, and how in the end we all couldn’t help but laugh. The way she rolled cigarettes with two hands and how her body rocked in that chair where she always sat.

There are holes in my boots. One in each. I worry about the day that they will rip open and be completely ruined. But then, that is just one day. One day, yes, but one day in a lifetime of many. 


-Remoy