For many ages they sat gathering
dust in the closet, taking up space
his wife of nearly forty wonderful years
could have used for other footwear.

They were there only as a reminder, so he'd
never be tempted to forget where he'd
traveled and the ones he felt grateful
he had met along the way.

Never a day went by they didn't cause
his mind to feel the pain of
the sweat burning blisters they had
rubbed from constant wear.

He hated them and loved them, but
most of all he respected where they
had taken him. Even now, their memory
stained leather still carries the odors
and visions into a yesteryear he'll
relive forever.

The laces remind him of the pathways,
narrow and treacherous leading through the jungles
in a land filled with mines and an enemy
that wanted more than anything else,
the very breath from his lungs.

Their tongue retold every story, every
memory shared, between close friends or
strangers, the letters from home read
aloud, good news or bad news, it was
an embracement from home.

Their insides reminded him of the many
foxholes he dug, sat in, ate in, slept in,
and prayed. The smell of the others, the
faces of the dead, the screams in the
darkness, it all replayed in his head.

Their sole was the unshakeable foundation
for life. The knowledge of reason, the bravery
of all, the blood shed for the liberation of a
people held captive in their land.

Their contents of a now dulled silver
dimpled tag, can still be read by his aged
gray eyes through his many tears and
memories, reminding him that he really
did make it home alive.

But it was the unending rows of stitches
that would always be stabbingly painful. In each
of them was an inlayed name of a fallen Brother,
a Friend or Stranger of which he would
forever remain in debt.