The Scuff on my Boots

28 October 2015

I like that scuff on my shoe.

 Was my thought when I looked down and saw it during a meeting with a client.  I haven't worn these boots in awhile, and I remember when I first discovered the scuff, I was mildly sad.  I had just bought these ankle boots.  But I told myself that the memory that created it was worth it and instead, I'll just use the scuff as a reminder for the memory.  And also, the only place in my house that gives evidence contrary to love of minimalism is my bucket of boots.

It was a year ago, exactly to the month.  I drove down to Moab with Ryan for his sister's homecoming.  It was the first time I met his family in full.  And one evening, Ryan pulled me out of the house bustling with people, and nudged me towards his dirt bike for a private little sunset ride.  And the dirt bike only had one set of foot pegs, so Ryan urged me to place my feet on them, and then he placed his feet on mine.  Then I scooted in close and wrapped my arms around him, and off we flew.

We drove west through the red rock, chasing the drowning sun.  Everything was red and orange and all aglow.  We were snuggled in so close, and I could feel the pressure of his feet on my toes.  Everything felt so secure.

And now as I help these two business owners, who are in the industry of selling health supplements but don't look the part, I feel soothed at the memory of orange and red glow and riding through the big Moab canyons with Ryan.

Upward and onward,

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