Jenna Rush

My husband Sam is a paramedic. These are his boots.

Every day he puts them on, kisses me, and these boots walk out the door.

Every day he comes home, haphazardly kicks them off somewhere by the front door, and kisses me. I grumble; he has left his dirty work boots in the middle of the hallway, strewn and distant, like completely independent entities. I might trip. I am sick of having to step over them. I need them to be neatly united – a place for everything and everything in its place. I pick them up to quench my thirst for order and detail.

They are so heavy.

These mandated, black boots are so, incredibly, heavy. A shock runs through my body – up through the leather and the laces, across my hands, my arms, through my neck and penetrates my skull. What have these boots seen today? Images form and flash rapidly, from information I try to piece together from nothing more than slumped shoulders and a furrowed brow. What have they seen? Where did they go?

Did they make it there in time?

I jerk awake – away from scenes and stories that thankfully were not mine to experience. I could never wear these boots. I do not think I could carry the weight.

I set them down gently, with each other for comfort, together by the wall. This is a uniform, these boots don’t need me right now, but they alert me to someone who does. My husband Sam is a paramedic.

These are his boots. 

Every day he comes home, haphazardly kicks them off somewhere by the front door, and kisses me. Every day I straighten them up, realize how heavy they are, and run to kiss him on the cheek.

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Jenna is on Facebook.