Stitching

The picture doesn’t do them justice.

These are my new boots and they are wonderful beyond words. My husband gave them to me for Christmas to replace my Target boots which, despite my deep love for them, began to fall apart. They came apart at the seams, which, if you didn’t know, means, according to Merriam-Webster, “to break into parts or pieces — usually used figuratively to describe someone or something that is in very bad condition.”

I’ve not yet come apart at the seams despite having been stretched and wrenched, mostly by my own florid anxiety about the pandemic, my age, my children, and blades of grass under my feet. Anything. Anywhere. I let my boots be a metaphor for all this but only to myself.

My old boots did, in fact, come apart at the seams. I watched this happening every morning at the dog park going up the hill and coming down through the passageway where water pools and boards are put down to keep folks from getting their feet wet. There won’t be many more days when I can wear these boots, I said to myself the day before Christmas.

My husband says that the new boots are more playfully colored than he had imagined when he ordered them online. He ponders whether he might have seen the ad for them in black and white instead of color while I am pondering his use of the term “playfully colored.” That he knew to order boots is the point, however playfully colored.

I love this man. My partner. Because of the boots, yes, but also because he is mindful of the seams.