Brown’s Clarks by: Samantha L. Barbosa, Photo- 2017
I wipe my tattered boots on the mat that reads “Welcome,” although I feel anything but.
I leave my shoes at the door. This is not home. Not anymore.
I walk the hall and see the old photos, we always talked of taking new
ones, but we never did, so they hang on the wall perfect and outdated,
although everything’s mostly the same, it doesn’t feel the way I remember.
Time to pack. Time to throw out the old. Time to store.
I open my first drawer. Old love notes from a crush read with
embarrassment. Wristbands from concerts I wasn’t supposed to
attend. Pictures, tons of them, I haven’t seen in years. In most of them,
I am wearing my Clarks. My beloved boots. I wore them
everywhere, with everything, my noble companions.
The rust leather faded in the parts with the most wear.
A hole now on the bottom of the sole.
They are beaten, they are worn.
I feel as defeated as they look.
I grab them from outside, wear them one last time. They are so broken in.
I know. It is time. They must go, too.
I think back to how excited I was when I first
brought them home. They were so shiny and stiff, ready for adventure.
I gently set them in the box.
I place a picture of myself, Clarks on my feet, wind in my hair, in with them.
I plan to donate them.
Someone at a thrift store will see them, appreciate their value,
and they will go on walking.