Walk ‘Em Dry

By John Blase | August 14, 2012 |

Her Daddy used to buy a new pair of boots

once a year in the early spring. When he got

home she’d watch him pull them on then walk

straight into the creek until the water almost

spilled over the tops. He was always careful

to tell her what his father had told him: Gotta

soak ’em, train ’em to mimic your feet. Then

walk ’em dry. As the water worked its way

through the seams she always swore she could

hear the waxed thread sing. Her Daddy died

a year ago yesterday, the same day she bought

the lace-up boots from an urban boutique, paid

too much, and wore them right out of the store.

As she stepped outside it began to rain, heavy

steel drops as cold as creek water. She walked

ten blocks in that downpour before pausing at

the sight of herself in a store-front window, her

eyes spying the fresh boots through the rain and

tears, water squishing out her seams like a song.

Yes, she was city now, far removed from saddles

and fence, but she had listened to his voice and

remembered the only way to train new boots

to mimic a new life. She’d have to walk ’em dry.

(For the image poetry prompt at the Every Day Poems Facebook page.)