Since I have known my husband, his shoes, flip flops, sandals, hiking boots, or even his house shoes have been under my feet. Tripping me.
“Could you please pick up your boots?” I asked nicely in the beginning. Always attempting to sound like the calm, gentle, newly-minted bride. He complied. Sometimes grumbling. Sometimes apologetic. When pleasantries failed, I turned toward the power of suggestion. “You know, it would be much easier for you if all your shoes were in the same spot,” I hinted. “They are in the same spot. They are here next to the door where I need them,” he answered. But no matter how often I asked or begged, his shoes still remained under my feet. A constant point of contention.
Seven years of marriage, I still walk through the door, groceries in hand, children in tow, and stumble, yet again, over the desert boots he now wears for his job. “Is it so freaking hard to pick up you stinking boots?” I yell through the house. “What am I? Your mother?” I bellow, wanting to kick them across the room.
He walks toward me, grumbling, and picks up the boots. “Sorry,” he says. Again. “Yeah, I know,” I mumble in return.
I have tried everything I can imagine to break the habit. I have picked them up myself. Hid them. Buried them under his covers on his side of the bed. I have taken the laces from them. Filled them with a dirty diaper. Nothing has worked. We are now locked in battle of wills.
I never imagined that something that once sent me into a rage could now bring me so much comfort. We have spent years apart now with deployments, schools, and training. The one constant in our lives is separation. But, those boots, the same ones that trip me, baffle me, and haunt me, bring me a sense of comfort. Our marriage is tied up in those battered laces.
Long after the smell of his cologne leaves the house, long after the dent in his side of the bed has disappeared, long after his dirty towels are washed and his voice has faded in the distance, his boots still linger next to the door.
I trip over them, falling through the door while I unload groceries. Herd children. Check the mail. Their awkward weight lingers under my feet, and I catch myself wanting to yell at him. I long to hear his grumbling answer. He hasn’t been here for months. And my heart feels empty.
I bend over, pick them up, place them back in their watchful position, and leave them to wait for him. I will stumble over them again. Will want to kick them across the room. But, until his feet return to fill them, I am content to see, feel, and stumble over the memories of our life together.
