throughout my childhood,
my mom detested music with vocals in it,
and she only let us listen to classical music,
because otherwise she thought modern pop singers would corrupt our soul,
so when i came of age,
as a point of rebellion,
i started listening to death metal,
but that phase did not last long,
as i tired of all the screaming,
so i went back to classical music,
and occasionally i’ll listen to jazz and lofi beats
in the background while i’m reading
life is like a jungle gym in your backyard,
one day you wake up to it being built
by your beet-red, sweat-ridden dad,
who cursed the gods of instruction on how small of print
the instruction pamphlet was,
who he blames foreigners for, for some inexplicable reason,
then you play on it all summer long, maybe a little even into fall and the first few warm days of winter,
then you wait, anticipating next summer,
only to forget about it for the next fifteen years,
go off to college, the jungle gym set deteriorates in the backyard,
birds defecate on it, spiders make silky homes in its crevice,
the foundation sinks into the ground, further, deeper,
when you go home during break
and look out into your childhood home’s backyard,
you don’t even see the jungle gym, it blends into the background,
then your parents retire, your dad wants to move him and your mom into a retirement community,
a cul-de-sac of townhomes where all their neighbors are 65+,
and they sell your childhood home to a gentrified couple
with modern taste, who wear overalls ironically, and drink homemade beer,
and they tear down the old jungle gym
that you no longer miss, because it no longer exists
Billy refused to wear anything but his beloved cowboy boots, no matter the occasion. His parents had tried to persuade him to wear other shoes, but he stood firm, haunted by a traumatic memory from his childhood.
When he was just a little kid, his parents had attempted to teach him how to tie the laces on his sneakers. A pair of green Adidas he had asked for Christmas. No matter how many times his parents explained, demonstrated, or chastised him on how to tie his shoes, he couldn’t seem to master the skill. But they were adamant; he would not be allowed to join them for dinner until he figured it out. His parents left to prepare a dinner of processed meat with genetically modified produce that probably would have been mediocre at best, but because Billy was so hungry it smelled like the greatest meal he was missing out on.
He never figured out how to tie his shoes that night. His parents topped the night off with a bowl of rocky road ice cream that they mocked Billy with by eating in front of him as he struggled to discern the very basics of a knot. Despite how unlikely it was that they did this, his memory recalled that his parents were laughing at him at that point.
From that day forward, Billy vowed to never wear sneakers again, or any shoes, for that matter, with any laces, begging his parents for cowboy boots instead. With his new footwear, he felt invincible, as though he were a true cowboy who could overcome anything.
But as he grew older, Billy began to understand that his boots were not a solution to every problem. They couldn’t shield him from the hurt of heartbreak, the sting of rejection, or the uncertainty of the future.
Despite this, Billy still clung to his boots. They became a part of his identity. And served as a reminder of his tenacity and his ability to adjust to any situation. Or at least that would be what he told himself whenever he looked down as he walked.
Billy wore his cowboy boots with pride, even when others suggested he move on and leave them behind. Even when partners of his told him that he was being silly and that cowboy boots weren’t hip or modern or cool. He insisted that he did not care.
As a side note, though, Billy did learn how to tie regular shoes a few months after the traumatic event of the green Adidas. This time it was his fifteen year old cousin, Darlene, that occasionally babysat Billy that taught him. Darlene was significantly more patient and understanding. At least from what he could recall. But Billy still had his preference, and it seemed to always lean towards wearing cowboy boots. Just never with that dumb hat.
Fred Aiken Writing 