“You’ll never forget me, right?” I asked Eric as he was lacing up his battered tan boots. I could see the wear in them. Really, they told a story of their own. If they could talk, they would talk about the different countries they’d seen, the different people they’d encountered—but they would also talk about the blood they had trudged through, the destruction that they had laid in their wake. Those boots were all I could focus on.
The first tour, they had come back a little scuffed, with a few new stains. The second, they came back with some doodles drawn on them—I think from some comic book. The third tour; that’s when they came home with their story. There were more stains, more doodles, but they also had their own scars now, kind of like Eric. There were chunks of leather missing from the sides, and pieces of plastic were missing from where the laces go. I had insisted he replace them, but he had been adamant about keeping them—some kind of sentiment that I couldn’t understand at the time.
After three tours, Eric had a few scars of his own. The first tour, he had come back with a sense of wonder about what he’d seen. He couldn’t wait to tell me some of his stories. He hadn’t seen a lot of combat that mission. The second tour, he still enjoyed his job, but he became more guarded. His third tour…my husband came back a different man. The smallest noises made him jump, and we couldn’t go out in public without him watching behind his back. When we went out to eat, his back had to be against the wall, and he had to face the door—a better escape plan, he would say.
I’ve always been understanding with him. He loved defending his country. He loved being a Marine.
He finally finished lacing up those damned boots, and looked up at me, looking deep into my eyes. “I could never forget you, Sookie. Just promise you won’t forget about me.”
My eyes teared up at that. This had always been so hard on us. He said this would be his last tour, and I believed him. It was time for him to be home with me. With his family. I think he knew that, but it was a hard decision for him to make.
But those damn boots. I couldn’t help but look at them and wonder what they were going to look like when they came back from this tour. Would they have to be replaced? Would they make it back? Would they be bloodier, muddier, more damaged and scarred? Maybe I was stalling, trying to not think of what could happen to Eric, but somehow, those boots had become Eric, and Eric had become those boots. As long as they both made it home, everything would be okay.
That was nine months ago. Today, I welcomed our new daughter, Jessica into the world, and Eric was by my side, home just in time for her birth. He put the uniform away, finally. Transitioned into the civilian world. He’s such a great father. I could have never forgotten about him. Does the lung forget how to breathe? Does the coast forget the feeling of the azure waters lapping against its shores? Does the Earth forget the warmth of the Sun? No. I could never forget about him.
Those boots still live in our closet, behind boxes and old clothes, still waiting to tell their story. But I know deep down, that they got Eric back to me, and for that, I will be forever grateful.
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