This week found me in my living room, sewing in the wee hours after my son asked me to repair his favorite soccer cleats. As I sat with the sewing basket, the dog curled up next to me on the couch, I remembered my dad and how he'd polish my boots each time I came home from college for a visit.
My dad was drafted in the Army during the Vietnam War, where he learned how to polish a boot to a drill sergeant's exacting standards. It was a skill that never left him. No one can polish and shine a shoe like my dad.
My dad always said yes when I asked him to polish my boots. It's one of those things I took for granted, but that's poignant to me now that I'm on the other side, offering care to my children. I'm so grateful I've parented and lived long enough to offer my appreciation now.
When I remember to ask - or wear something other than sandals - my dad will polish my boots for me. And now I pass down this grace to my son, in the patches on his beloved cleats.
Shoe Lessons
On weekend visits home, my father took
out the shoebox of leather cream and the soft,
worn cloths. He polished my boots and buffed
the sides until they shone with a soldier's skill.
Afterwards they sat on paper, side by side, the
leather gleaming. Now I sit up in the long night
and sew patches inside my son's favorite cleats.
When I prick my fingers, drawing blood,
I remember the polish that stained
my father's hands.
I'm glad my son asked me to fix his shoes
instead of asking for new. I'm glad he knows
the joy of repairing the things you love. He
doesn't know that my thumbs are deliciously sore
or how I wished him courage as I sewed. He
doesn't know that I asked myself to be patient
when I grew frustrated, stumbling in my stitches.
But soon he'll know the row of seams, grey threads
lined with the imprints of my fingers. Perhaps
he'll feel the patience I stitched inside them
when he gets impatient with himself.
I wonder if my father felt this same gladness
as the brown polish soaked into his skin. I wonder
if he made mistakes and tried to be gentle. I wonder
if that gentleness comes to meet me now, and if
this is the gentleness I pass onto my son. I think
my father knew more than I could imagine when
I was seventeen. I think he knew this tired delight
as I gather up the sewing basket and head for sleep.
I think he knew the strength I felt in my shiny boots,
crisp on my feet, as I drove back to school, bearing
two stamps of his love.
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