Boots

I live in a small town, a town where very little changes from day to day. I walk downtown almost every day, and almost a week ago I noticed something in a parking lot.

They’re still there. They are becoming part of the unchanging substrate of small town life.

I had to look more closely. After all, maybe they contained feet and I would become part of a rural murder mystery! Television and novels tell me that happens all the time.

They don’t contain feet. They seem to be stuffed with damp, moldering leaves, which is a little odd, but not sufficient to warrant calling in a small town sheriff.

They seem to have been worked hard — the leather is stretched and scuffed, the seams are loose but still holding everything together. They’re in the kind of shape where, if they were my boots, I’d start thinking I definitely need new shoes, but I’d tell myself I could keep using them for one more year. Which I’d tell myself again every year for a couple of years.

I checked. They wouldn’t fit me. They were much too large and very wide. In fact, I was surprised by how big they are. Whoever owned them had to be at least 300 pounds, and I could tell these boots had a hard life every day. Maybe they’re relieved to be resting in an empty lot, soothed by the rain, communing with the bugs that come around to visit.

It’s weird. Somedays I’m intensely curious about where they come from, who left them there, why they abandoned them here, what kinds of interesting things their owner did while wearing them…other days I’m like “Hello, boots. I wouldn’t mind joining you sometime. Tell me about the life of an old boot decaying on the pavement.”

This post has no significance, I’m just contemplating some soggy old boots.