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For most men I know, it’s sneakers or loafers or some polished thing they save for church.

For me, it was always boots.

I spent most of my adult life laced into combat leather. Jump boots. Jungle boots. Different brands, different contracts, different years — but the same weight, the same smell of polish and sweat and dust baked into the seams. Earlier today I read another man’s post about his boots. I wasn’t planning to answer the question this year. I figured I’d already said enough about that life.

But I started smiling.

That’s how memory gets you. Quiet. Sideways.

I called my son. His military road was different than mine — same branch, different era, different wars — but there are threads that don’t change. The first time you lace up for real. The first mission. The first time you realize the boots are going to carry more than your body.

We laughed about ours.

Then we pivoted — like we always do — to his Navy daughter, my granddaughter, currently somewhere out at sea. Another generation in boots and steel decks and salt air. The conversation widened. Time folded in on itself. Three generations tied together by laces and duty and stories we don’t always tell the civilians.

Somewhere in the middle of that, we drifted back to high school ROTC. My failed attempt to teach him how to spit-shine properly. I remember standing there, explaining circles and patience and pressure like it was sacred ritual. He remembers ignoring half of it.

We laughed hard at that.

Then he told me he passed the tradition on to my grandson.

That hit different.

He brought up a pair of jungle boots I wore until they literally disintegrated. I replaced the soles. Replaced the heels. Replaced the laces more times than I can count. Finally swapped the laces out for 550 cord. Not regulation. Functional. I’ve always leaned functional over pretty.

Those boots went from the beaches of the Pacific to the shores of the Yellow Sea. Other places too. Too many to list. Some beautiful. Some not. They carried me through humidity thick as soup and sand that found its way into everything. They stood in formation. They stood in mud. They stood when I didn’t feel like standing.

I look at my boot rack now. There’s one pair of military-issue boots left. I’d forgotten I even had them. They were tucked away at my mother’s house.

What is it about mothers?

They’re archivists of the things we swear we don’t need anymore. They hold onto fragments — boots, notebooks, scraps of paper — until one day those fragments are heavier than gold.

While I was there, I found an old engineering notebook. My early schematics. Tight lines. Confident angles. Big ideas. I remember thinking I was unstoppable back then.

I look at those pages now and wonder — what happened to that guy?

Then I catch myself.

Nothing happened.

He’s still here. Just scarred. Smarter. Quieter about it.

Those boots didn’t just take me across oceans. They took me from arrogance to humility. From proving myself to protecting others. From thinking strength was noise to understanding strength is endurance.

My favorite pair of shoes were never really about footwear.

They were about where they stood.

And who stood in them.

Now they sit still.

But the miles don’t disappear.

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Author’s Note:
Appreciation to Di and Aaron for the spark behind this piece. And to Esther, whose prompt reminded me that some memories don’t fade — they just wait.