Boots
A poem a day through the season of Lent
I shined your boots today, took
thick paste and spread it on the leather.
Our dear sweet friend, Rebecca, died.
Of course, you knew that before I did.
I rubbed it gently into the toe, the heel, over the bridge
and up the ankle. I could feel you through my hands.
Were you there to receive her? Just hours earlier,
a circle of women held her in our arms.
I felt suppleness pass between us. I closed
my eyes, smiled at the familiar shape of your foot.
Now her Beloved begins marking the days since
her departure. It’s strange, this left-behind club.
You were always giving me happy feet
with your gifts of sturdy boots and warm socks.
We collect mementos, living for
signs of the love that upended us.
I’ve watched as the leather has grown dry and dusty
in the seven months since you last wore them.
We look for the clues you leave, provided
we can clear the tears to see them.
Was it weird to want to shine your boots
for you? Weirder still to do it?
Provided we can quiet the keening to listen. I
would tell her Beloved that if you lean in,
Who cares. No one saw.
sometimes you can hear sounds of laughter.
A respectable pair of boots ought
to have some spit and polish now and then.
The richness of your words.
Your grief process is so sweet and so terrifying at the same time. Last night, for the first time in about three weeks, I didn’t fall asleep right away. I was thinking about someone I’d lost so long ago, and how it cratered my life. It left holes and pain that is revisited every so often.
Then such a quick thought shivered through me - what if I lose Bob? I squelched that thought in the bud. No. Not something I can handle.
I’ve joined a Methodist church after almost of a lifetime of charismatic attendance. Taking part in Lent for the first time in over 50 years means a new beginning. This Sunday’s sermon will be about Good Friday. And yes, I’m shivering away from that, too. I know the resurrection follows a short time after, but sometimes the weight of the of loss stacks up.
You’ve seen too much loss, Kaylene, in the last year. My heart goes out to you. Thank you for writing about boots. The picture looks much like what my father wore on the ranch I grew up on. Special things, these memories, to hold on to. They bring peace, they bring heartbreak.