Walking in Their Feet
I knelt on the floor at his feet. He sat in his arm chair, a red pack of Pall Malls and brown quart of beer nearby. We didn’t speak. I tugged away, loosening the leather strings of his heavy work boots, using a fork on the most stubborn knots. I pulled with all my might, freeing his feet to rest in their thick white socks. It’s one of few fond memories of time with my father. My older siblings tell me Dad was exceptionally intelligent. An intuitive once told me he was horribly abused as a child. He never had
