I still have my boots on. Normally, I would take them off at the door, but tonight I did not. I walked today in other boots, the ones that suddenly split on me, the mouth of one opening into a challenge, one that, sadly, cannot be repaired. These faithful boots are years old, chewed by a dog, slip soled, thinned and ageing. I respect them, love them enough to keep sliding over seaweed and allowing the seep of ingress. I am old too, I tell them, and they know, they already know because my faltering feet inhabit their walls.
Tonight, after a laughing happy dinner share with my young family, via a short traverse in my mini, I still have my boots on. It is cold. The stars shout of Aurora Borealis, and I believe their shout. I see the Milky Way, the Bears, Cassiopia, more. The dark sky is a symphony, a performance, an invitation. Although I am coming in to the fire and the candles, I know the out there is out there, hence my boots on thingy. I might have to dash out to see this, or that and who on earth would ever want to miss the this or the that of sky talk?
I will take my boots off soon. I know I will because it is almost bedtime for old widows like me. But I will go to sleep hugging the way I was ready to run out into the stars, and I will smile at who I am.