I see his old brogans in the closet.
Because this is not my bedroom
and not my closet, I hesitate before
opening the door wider and taking
one of the shoes in my hands.
It has been well worn, a deep brown
with the toes and heels a bit lighter.
There is a swelling in the leather
where a bunion strained the last,
I breathe in the lifelong scent of my father;
hickory from years of his pipe smoke,
cooking smells from Mother's apple pie
and Hungarian goulash, and that faint aroma
of sweat that came from his work in the yard.
I remember flying in my swing
while he stood behind, pushing and protecting
me from falling, the long walks we took
where he would show me
the discarded skin of a snake by the railroad tracks,
how he taught me to fish, guiding my fingers
while I threaded the worm onto the hook.
These shoes taught me how to kick a football,
Mother cautioning Dad to remember I was a girl
but he always came back with you teach her the girlie
things, I’ll teach her about life.
I hear others arriving downstairs; I lean
down and place the shoe next to its mate and click
the closet door shut on the past.

© by Jackie Langetieg.
Used with the author’s permission.