The Man With the Yellow Boots


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.


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