His boots were mustard yellow. His boots were tacky. Muddy. Rubber. Quirky. Casual. His boots were gone. Gone with the person that walked in them.
I sat in the field of grass, watching the strokes of yellow-green sway in the harmony of the wind. I was hunched over the lazy, aquamarine lake that seemed to stretch on until the ends of the earth. Sitting there in uncomfortable silence, I watched the occasional ripples in the water and scanned the cloud-filled sky.
In my hand was a photo of my father, laughing with me on the worn, maroon couch in our living room. In the background was a twinkling Christmas tree, the ornaments glistening in the flash of the camera. The fireplace behind us had shown a mild flame twisting and twirling in the cave of stone. And on my fathers feet was a pair of yellow boots, splotched with dried, brown mud.
I faintly remember that the ugly yellow boots never seemed the least bit clean, no matter how many times my mother washed them. I chuckled slightly at the thought, but it lasted for only a second or two before I was somber was again.
As a single, silvery tear dripped down my cheek, I ripped the photograph in two and tossed it into the lake.