Who Were You Before I Was Me

The bottom of those boots don’t have any tread left, and your socks are going to peek at me soon. If I was a betting gal, I’d say you’re wearing those treadless boots because I got a new pair.

 

Camouflage vest to hide what lurks too close to the surface, and bare spots on your jeans where your energy burned right through them. Dixie cup heavy with bad coffee for the constant refuel you seek, and perched on your head is the Florida State Seminoles hat, or the Semi-holes as you like to say and throw your head back in a cackle, clapping your hands together for extra emphasis.

 

I want to put those treadless boots on and travel back in time. I want to ask the mustached, camouflage-wearing man to stop the clock. I want to know what fuels you besides that Dixie cup heavy with bad coffee. I want you to unzip your vest and let me see what’s lurking so close to the surface, whether it’s dark or light.

 

I want to know what book you’re reading when you’re out on the road without us. I want to watch Michael Landon put on his snowshoes at the beginning of a Little House episode and hear you say, “God damn it. I’m not watching him wander around in the snow for an entire episode,” and I want to know what’s so wrong with Michael Landon in the snow.

 

I want to lay in the floor with my book and kick the ironing board while you make that chambray shirt presentable, and I want you to stop me from gossiping with my Girl Scout friends and make me watch you build that fire.

 

You treat me to glimpses of this fella when you spread your fingers out on the dining room table and say, “Darlin’, did I ever tell you about the time James Johnson drove our rig through a paint store, and I woke up thinking we were under water, but it was just blue paint covering the windows?”

 

You throw your head back, clapping your hands for extra emphasis, and let out that cackle. Then you point to me and say, “You better write that down.”