my mother’s shoe boxes stack

to the ceiling, a visual representation

of all she left behind and all

she never will.  

 

3am and his footprints

are still in the hall, red

boots with silver buckles. 10pm

and she can hear her daughter

crying softly in her room.  black

ankle boots.  first date boots the

ring is off her finger but the ghost

of it still remains boots taking her children

to the therapist boots mommy are you

going to die like daddy did boots but

 

she walks them into

a better life.  into hiking

in the mountains of Vegas

and buying a house that doesn’t

haunt her.  she tells me “Don’t let

people define you.  If you need good

support, then buy better shoes, and

these?” she says, “these are my

getting married boots.”