A day in the life of a slightly deranged widow… The boots

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So the cupboard under the stairs. It’s like a black pit of despair, there are things hiding in the depths of that cupboard that havent seen the light of day but must be kept…who knows why? Things that have no ‘home’ but will be needed ‘one day’ are put in there and if anything is ever lost without trace it has disappeared from that cupboard which I feel has probably become some sort of portal to another dimension .

But I have to clear it out, I need to pack it up and I need to be brave. Not because of the many spiders that have probably taken up residence and mutated but because I know there are personal things that Andy has left in there and I now have to decide to keep and take to my new home,  is a bag of shoes. The shoes I know he didn’t really like wearing are an easy decision, the charity box thing at the recycling centre. Slippers are a little harder, I’vll keep one pair but there are 4 pairs and although each pair has a story behind they have to go the same way as the shoes.

But then, his boots. His walking boots. Weekend and caravan wear. Boots were his thing. Comfy, dependable and solid. They actually sum him up in a way I hadn’t thought before. The old worn ones have character and were kept for snow and muddy days whilst his new expensive fabulous ones were so nearly sent with the undertakers .

I have worried lots about this. I sent him his favourite clothes and comfy caravan outfit ( who wants to spend eternity in a suit and tie? Certainly not Andy!) but in a sudden decision made with my heart not head I kept his boots, I hope he understands if he is somewhere without his boots he is going to be ‘ miffed’ but  I couldn’t bear to see them go so along with his hat I kept at the last minute. I have a feeling they need to stay with me in his box as they really are ‘him’ but can I keep two pairs? 

I look at them and remember walking on the beach, me barefoot and paddling in the sea. Him boots tightly laced and splashing to humour me but determined not to get his feet wet as ‘ there are things in the sea that want to kill’  you including weaver fish who lurk beneath the sand and work their way up the beach to his chair intent on stinging him… holidays that I spent barefoot with sand between my toes and he spent booted.

Days at the stones on the grass, me barefoot grounding myself and him booted. Weekends in the caravan with me barefoot loving the freedom, and him booted. These sensible,protective, warm and practical bits of footwear are so completely Andy I can’t throw them away and pack into a box. I’m not sure if in a year, two years or thirty I will still need to hold them and possess but for now…I do.

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