In Passing

It’s just broken stones and old bones turned to dust. An alder chip path careening through the decay, me crunching a million specks of memories and reasons for living beneath the heels of my well-worn boots.

Some fought in revolutionary wars, others in civil ones, all fought the quiet battles of internal strife and individual responsibility.

I can feel the stories of the dead seeping through my soles.

It’s time for a new pair of boots.


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