The Last Piece Of Him

I don't want to replace them.

I stare at the boots, more brown than black from the layers of sun baked mud. The cracks I've tried to hide are like wrinkles, baring the truth of their age for everyone to see. The only thing new on the shoes are the laces, a poor attempt at trying to extend my time with the boots. Already, they are already dusty from the fields today, much like the white socks I wore on my feet.

That is probably the biggest sign I need to replace these boots, though I really rather not. The bottoms of the shoes are starting to separate from the rest, a mouth barely opening, but allowing so much dirt inside.

But despite that, I can't get rid of them.

All I can think of is my father wearing these boots and that throwing these boots away would be the final piece of his complete destruction. A pulverizing of some childish hope he would return from Vietnam, whole and alive.

The screen door slams angrily, a pretense to a man stomping abnormally into the kitchen. A clanging of bottles clicking against each other warns me of yet another night I don't want to be home. Maybe I'll spend the night at Henry's this time.

The man stumbles past me, unbalanced and unaware of my distress. He opens the fridge and slams each bottle on the top shelf, nearly breaking both bottle and shelf at one point. It isn't until he closes the fridge he notices the boots and I are standing there. He attempts to smile at me and fails, giving more of a grimace.

"Hey." His voice is raspy, probably still tired from him yelling like a madman last night, something I doubt he remembers. I nod in response, not really up for a conversation.

He points a shaky hand to the boots. "You should toss those."

Emotion and fear squeezes me to the point I have to force my words out. "I can't."

"Sure you can," he grabs the boots and opens the lid to the trash can, as if demonstrating the ease of the task. "I'll tell your mom to get you..."

"They were yours, Dad." What I don't say is they are the last part of the old you, before you were snatched away to a country and war that chewed you up and spit out this man that looks like my dad but isn't.

He pauses briefly, looking down at his left leg, the reason why he gave the boots to me in the first place. Dad is wearing pants, trying to hide the physical evidence of his time in the war, a piece of his humanity replaced with metal and wood. It wouldn't surprise me if he's back there now, thinking of the bomb that took his leg and the lives of some of his friends.

The boots fall to the bottom of the can with a clanging thump before Dad places the lid back on and limps to the bedroom without saying another word. Part of me is tempted to snatch the boots out of the trash, stubbornly trying to hold on what used to be. Instead, I walk away, tears rolling down my face, finally accepting I will no longer see my real dad again.

***

So, I just happen to reread the original article (linked above) to double check the rules, and realized I can't actually submit to this challenge. But, I still want to publish this story because I want to share it with everyone and because I want to bring attention to Mackenzie Davis' (un)official and amazing challenge! Maybe this will be motivation to try to the next one, (if there is one.)