Her father was a gardener his shoes were never clean
They were always brown and dirty…which helped his thumbs stay green.
She remembers watching him with his plants…she remembers being amused
Sometimes all she saw of him was the bottom of his shoes.
He could grow anything he put his mind to…flowers…vegetables…fruits…
and as each new growing season awakened he’d slip on his old boots.
She asked him once why wear those old shoes…why not get something new…
He smiled and said, “Their comfortable and I trust them.”
and she thought…they’re just like you.
She was cleaning out his workroom the summer after he died…
deciding what to keep and what to lose…
when in the corner where he always left them…
she saw her dad’s old shoes.
She smiled, picked them up, held them close…
and when she lifted them…some dirt
from the bottom of her father’s shoes
had rubbed off on her shirt.
She keeps his old shoes as a reminder…
of a father who was wise and gentle and kind
and every time she holds them
she thinks of the footprints he left behind.
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