Boots

I was told once by someone into anointing that it was necessary to bless and anoint the feet because they carry us into sin. I replied that mine needed a whole barrel full of the stuff because they had carried me into more than my fair share. As I said this, I pointed down at my scuffed greasy calf skin d-ringed motorcycle boots. It was wearing those boots that I hitch-hiked across the States and parts of Canada. On occasion, the boots served as weapons of offense and defense because playing guitar in some places I played, you needed to cover your own six.
I made the mistake of leaving them with some of my other possessions at my parent’s home for a couple of months. When I returned, my mother, a presagement of Marie Kondo, had tossed them away. Luckily for her, she had not tossed out my guitar.

I’ve never found another pair quite like them, and I’ve never had a pair of boots or shoes since to which I was really attached.