My father died last summer.
Afterwards,
When she cleaned out his closet,
My mom told me to take something
Anything,
A memento.
“Or it’ll just collect dust.”

(When Grandpa went
Nothing came to me.
I still miss him.
Older this time,
I seized the moment.)

They looked about the right size,
So I inherited a pair of shoes.
Nice, comfy leather walking shoes.

They sit before me as I write.
Scrutinizing,
Weighing me.
I feel their eyelets on me
As I pace the room.

Trademark, barely visible
Weathered like the face
Floating in my mind.
And just as inscrutable.
Though I can’t read it
Any more than I could read him,
I know they’re a good brand;
He always sought the best.

On the underside,
A clod pokes out,
Embedded in the waffled sole.
Visitor from fields of memory,
He stood impossibly tall
Parting the green waves of wheat
Like some pastoral Moses.
Scratch marks mar tips
He would toe the black earth
Citing yields and gene lines
Naming varieties, a Nebraska Adam
Then warn me not to scuffle my shoes.

He used these shoes,
Made them his.
Mine give me blisters.
I put his on
Walk around the room.
They feel great—soft and pliant.
But I suspect
They’ll never quite fit
And I’ll never quite fill them.