After my first husband died, his boots became everything. They sat by the door, just where he’d kicked them off the last time he came home. The leather was worn, cracked at the sides where it had bent with every step he took. The toes were scuffed, the right one worse than the left, from the way he dragged his foot slightly when he walked. Deep creases ran across the tops, etched from years of wear, and the soles were smooth in places, especially at the heels where the rubber had nearly worn through.

I couldn’t stop staring at them. Every day, I checked to see if they’d moved, sometimes dozens of times. I would sit on the floor, eyeing the way they rested against each other, memorizing their position as though they might suddenly shift when I wasn’t looking. If they moved even the tiniest bit, maybe it would mean this wasn’t real. Maybe he was still here, somewhere, somehow.

But they never moved.

Those boots weren’t just boots anymore. They were him. The way he walked through life, the hard work he put into everything, the places we’d been together. I could almost hear the sound of them on the porch, the thud of his steps as he came inside. I didn’t dare touch them. I couldn’t. Moving them felt impossible, like it would erase the last trace of him, like it would admit he was never coming back.

A year passed before I finally found the courage to pick them up. My hands trembled as I touched the cracked leather, the scuffed toes. They felt heavier than they should have, as though they carried all the weight of my grief. I held them to my chest and sobbed, my tears darkening the faded brown leather. Putting them away felt like saying goodbye all over again.

Even now, I can close my eyes and see them sitting there by the door, waiting for him to slip them on. I know they’ll never move again, at least in my line of vision. But, some part of me still watches, still waits. Some part of me always will.