Boots

26 months of Iraq are under the treads of these soles. Not all my doing, but a less than half contribution for sure. They are to the near point of hideous, but in that John Wayne weathered kind of way. The glue, and re-glue is failing, leaving the once tight rubber bottoms, now moving freely with every step. The inside of the boots, more destroyed than the outside, even that chip and gash on the right toe. They smell bad, but with all the right. Sweaty'd and bloody'd at one point or another.

Like I said, they were not mine to begin with. They were a sight for sore eyes when I got them. Leather faded and rubbed smooth in places. Tattered and nearly torn in others. Brian Reed bequeathed them before he left our unit, and he put them in good hands. He had worn them during his deployment the year and a half before. 15 months in Samarra, under a .50 cal, on a platform, or captured terrorist, in the confines of a humvee. Kicking or stomping.

The stories of where and what had been seen and done in those boots, to many to learn. I took them, not knowing the significance of the boots I'd be stepping into. Not just figuratively. Already worn in and comfortable to the feet, they were a comfortable blessing to the feet. Perhaps slightly past their prime, but they still had a few steps left in them.

Walking around, one day to the next, the boots learning new stories and seeing new sights. Their experience growing, marked one gash or chip of rubber here or there. Each having a small story, but a big stride. The connotations of good times and bad ones surging through every loop of the tie. Every lace up, conforming to foot, preparing for mission with the reliance all on the shoulders of my boots. Every lace down and untie the relief of a job well done, or a tough day over. Appreciated, but neglected, on their side or across the room until the morn. Until next year.