Mud-caked and tan with water-stained gold leather laces. They became his marker. If his boots were by the door, I knew he was near.
They were his living journal, worn and formed for comfort and experiences yet to be disclosed, holding remnants from where he'd been. Small stones were embedded in the treads from his time on a job, like kernels of corn wedged on the cob. The caked mud was hard and shaped like jagged bluffs protruding from the soles. Grass, now turning brown, was scattered randomly in the mud like dirty, disheveled hair.
Upon seeing the worn, dirty, clunky boots, peace overwhelmed me for he was safe and he was near.
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