These were my grandfather’s boots. He was, some of the time, a lumberjack on the Ottawa river. We still have his pike. His boots I threw into a landfill some years back.
My mother wanted to clear out the detritus and ephemera of forty years on. As they flew through the air I felt how irretrievable our lives are from second to second, I wish that I had kept those boots that he walked, worked, lived in, but in the end we all fly through the sky to somewhere else.
