There is a pebble I could not avoid floating in my boots; it seemed like with each shuffle in the dust of that morning walk I could not escape irritation. Upon return to the house I let the dog in and I took a close look at my foot wear. A stress mark of long ago finally wore through leaving not just a hole in the boot but a river of jagged edge near 2 inches long.
I'd bought these solid old leather hiking boots before I turned 19. I'm 36 now. They've graced my feet on more then an epic journey through the Wasatch Mountains. They've kicked up dust in Senegal and Ghana. They've courted a trail in Poland. I think I've even polished 'em up before to wear to a job interview. They held my feet on the deck of a pitching ship when coming into port.
My boots define me. I do have other trinkets from lands of distant eras of my life. I may seek to have 'em repaired. I may just wax 'em up one more time. I will though put them near my fire place to hang, a picture of who I am.
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