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One very early poem is one I still love – The Boots. They were cowboy boots that Barry had purchased when he was out West and were already quite worn when I met him. So well worn and well loved, but now gathering dust and mold in the basement. Once I wrote this I was able to deal with them and, looking back, I think it was the beginning of taking control of what I could as I steeled myself to dig in and do more work. And the beginning of my understanding that though we were such a team for so long, so well matched, I could and would find a way to move forward.
The Boots
There amidst the unused clothes
beckoned the boots.
Constant reminder of the physical loss,
embodiment of who he was –
lover, rebel, father, cowboy, soulmate.
They called out – what about me?
What are you going to do with me, without me?
There they lay – unfilled, moldy, sorrowful.
Yet, were they him?
Or were they just something he once owned,
once wore, once treasured?
Some THING that had value to him, but were no longer needed.
No longer needed because he is in us – in every life he touched.
Clearly in me –
his loving wife.
Clearly in the children he so cherished
and who inspired awe in him.
His footprints are indelibly etched in our hearts,
in our souls, in who we are.
No longer are the boots needed.
We are going on to make our own footprints,
walking our own paths,
but carrying him with us, each in our own way,
moving to the rhythms
of our memories, his laughter, his love.
The boots are gone,
but he is not.
– Sarah Carlson, August 2006
