Boots of Spanish Leather

Dear JoJo,

I received your letter, late. Had I made that half-mile trip to the post box just a few days earlier I would have known. I must tell you that I am surprised. Surprised that you remembered me. Surprised that you bothered to write. How can it be after 30 some years you can conjure the feel of my braids and your fingers releasing the twists of hair? All I know is the wiry grey and the knots that pull on my head. What I do remember are your boots. They were so old and tired and when you pulled them off your feet I remember thinking to myself—this is what life is, simply a covering that slips off. Now I am left with your boots in my mind and your life slipping off and falling to the ground. I wonder now if you will forgive me for stepping off that platform and on to that train, for ignoring the stomp of your boots as I ran from you and into the mountains. You know, you could have come for me. You could have put those boots onto a trail and come for me. And now, now I can’t come to you. This letter will land no where now, just the ink to page and page to envelope and envelope to no where. No where but here. I am surprised, surprised that you remembered me and surprised at how well I remembered you. I will mail this note to you and hope in my heart that it finds you. Finds you peacefully sitting by the fire, boots near the door, and me by your side.

With all my heart,
Sara