My Walking Boots
- Sally Somerton
- Jul 10
- 2 min read
I remember the day she chose me.
She ran her hands across my leather, pressed her thumbs into my soles and bent me gently, testing my strength. She wasn't looking for elegance.
She was looking for endurance.
"These will last," she said.
I puffed with quiet pride.
Good leather. Proper stitching. A tread deep enough to grip wet rock, muddy fields and mountain paths. I was made for a woman who liked to see what lay beyond the next hill.
And goodness, did we walk!
We wandered through forests where the dogs darted between the trees.
We crossed fields where cattle paused their grazing to watch us pass.
We climbed hills simply because they were there.
We explored villages where every narrow street invited another detour.
We stood on cliffs with the Atlantic roaring below, feeling the wind tug at her jacket and the salt settle into my leather.
She trusted me.
I trusted her.
Neither of us imagined there would come a day when the distance between the front door and the garden gate could feel like an expedition.
It happened quietly.
The walks became shorter.
The pauses became longer.
Sometimes she would stop, not to admire the view, but because something invisible had asked her to.
At first, I blamed myself.
Perhaps my soles had hardened.
Perhaps I no longer fitted as comfortably as I once had.
But when she lifted me from her feet, she would stroke my leather apologetically before placing me back on the shelf.
"You've done nothing wrong," her hands seemed to say.
So I waited.
Boots are rather good at waiting.
We don't complain about the weather.
We don't mind gathering a little dust.
We simply hope that one morning familiar hands will reach for us again.
Lately, though, there have been whispers.
She has been reading things.
Comparing things.
Measuring things.
I heard her mutter something about a sturdy one... rugged... folds up... comes with a seat.
A seat?
Whatever this creature is, it sounds rather peculiar.
I confess, I felt a twinge in my stitching.
Have I become too old?
Too heavy?
Too hopeful?
Then yesterday she lifted me down from the shelf.
Not to walk.
Just to hold me.
She turned me over in her hands, brushing away the dust with her thumb, tracing the scuffs that tell our story better than words ever could.
I realised then that she wasn't mourning me.
She was mourning the woman who once thought nothing of walking for miles.
There is a difference.
I still have grip.
My leather is still strong.
There are countless paths I have yet to tread.
Perhaps this rugged beast she has ordered is not coming to replace me after all.
Perhaps it is simply arriving to help us find our way back to the path.
I do hope it doesn't mind getting muddy.
Sally Somerton
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