Boots

I walk into the kitchen for my first cup of coffee. There, beside the door, sit my son's boots. I frown. "Why didn't he put these away?" I wonder for the 1,000th time.

I study them: lace up Justin cowboy boots. They define my son. Tall, up over the ankle for stability, laces adjust to thickness of socks or soreness of a turned ankle. These boots are scuffed from hours in the round pen with colts; worn smooth by days in the saddle. Traces of mud and horse manure mixed together cling to the soles. The odor of horses and the outdoors floats around them.

These boots are not just kicked off and scattered across the floor. They sit upright, side by side, and out of the way so no one will trip over them. They wait patiently for the next time he wants them, ready for another day in the sun.

My frown changes to a smile. I see the man he has become: a modern cowboy, thoughtful and kind, a purpose in all he does. The boots remind me of his growing up years, of his hopes and dreams of having a cattle and horse ranch. He's on his way now to achieving those dreams. Boots carried him from his childhood dreams to his adult reality.

I walk around the kitchen and start breakfast for the man who will soon fill these boots.