Boots

for my grandma

Boots.

A distinct memory teases at my brain – trying on pairs of boots in grandma’s closet.  Finally being able to fit her shoes.  Being as tall as her – something that I felt marked being grown up.  When I could be as tall as grammy, wear her shoes, I was grown up – a woman.

I was 12.

I loved the smell, the look, the feel of her boots.  They made me feel tall, seem womanly.  They made me feel important.  As I packed them away in my suitcase, I felt a quiet power, a sense of accomplishment.  I felt connected, and loved.  I could walk in grammy’s shoes.

I was 5 feet tall.

Those boots no longer fit me, and my height has now surpassed my grandmother’s.  But I still feel I can walk in grammy’s shoes.  I can love and live like her.  I can teach, and give like her.  I can fight and endure like her.  I can wear her kindness, and her smile.  And

her boots.

 

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