My eyes scan the street and the buildings around it as I walk my path to the coffee shop. The same bleak buildings I have looked at every day for the past twenty-five years. I look down at the sidewalk in front of me and I swear I can see my own footprints worn into the pavement. My gaze then falls on my shoes. The shoes I have worn for as long as I have been walking this route, along the sidewalk that I have walked on every day and a sudden feeling of falling comes over me. Not literally but figuratively, like my brain is falling into a melancholy, grave darkness with no bottom. Falling and falling as I walk to the coffee shop that looms at the end of the street. I study the soft brown leather wrapped around my worn shoes and the detailing that was expertly embroidered by a talented hand. I can't think about those hands. The hands that lay so peacefully next to me as we slept and fit in mine so perfectly. The hands that looked so pale against the white of the hospital gown in the last few days before I had to say goodbye forever. I shake my head once to clear my mind and push open the glass door of the air conditioned coffee shop, seeking refuge from the drab mugginess of the outdoors.  As the cool air hits my face I notice the single tear that had streaked down my cheek as it turns cold against my warmed skin. I wipe it away quickly and grab today's issue from the newspaper rack. I reach into my pocket and grab my notebook and pen as I make my way to Sarah, the barista. I quickly scribble down my order for the black coffee that I have not gone a day without since Em- no, I will not think of her. I push that thought deeper down inside of me until I can’t see her beautiful face anymore.

“Black coffee for John” Sarah’s usual jovial voice interrupts my painful thoughts. I walk to the end of the counter and grab the coffee. I give Sarah a nod in thanks and think about what her response would have been if I voiced my gratitude instead. I often wonder how people would react if an old man who hasn't spoken in twenty- five years suddenly did. I think of everyone I know and what their responses would be as I make my way home. I step inside my house and go automatically to the T.V. room.  I often think, that it’s like I trained my body as if it were a dog. loneliness is the best owner there ever was. I sit down in the red recliner and try to turn the T.V. on when I realize that the batteries in the remote are dead. I sigh and shuffle over to the closet. Ugh, I forget what compartment I stored the batteries in, it’s my old brain, I say to myself, it’s been through too much. I start pulling out drawer after drawer until my body involuntarily freezes as my eyes lock onto what I stumbled upon. Pictures. Pictures of adventure and beauty. Pictures of mistisity and wondrous experiences. Memories. Part of my brain is screaming at my hands to put them away and forget about them. Forget about the pain they have forced me to relive.  The other part of my brain is reminding me how happy I was living in these pictures. The prior was about to win when I notice something that stays consistent throughout all of the photographs. My shoes. Not the shoes that I am wearing now, but the shoes I used to wear. The hiking boots that smelled like gym socks and had a tiny hole in the toe. The ones that I had worn everywhere before Emma had made my current pair. I all but throw the pictures back into the drawer and slam it closed. Before I can declare the batteries a lost cause and turn my back, I see something that draws my attention. It’s the boots from my past.  Before I realize it, I am reaching for them. My fingertips brush the black material of the hiking boots that have carried me almost everywhere I wanted to go. Suddenly, there is a flood of memories rushing in, like the dam I had built and maintained for so long finally broke. Her and I in Paris, Rome and Tokyo. For a second, I feel like I am back there again, traveling with my Emmy, holding her hand and looking into those dark adoring eyes that held so much love for me and our adventures. Then I realize with devastating clarity, that she is gone and I am alone. That we are no longer young and healthy running around the world like nothing else matters. Nothing, except that we were together and what country we were visiting next. Tears slide down my face freely now and I hope that Emma is not watching me. Not watching me cry for her and who we used to be. I hope that she is somewhere exploring where I cannot explore, discovering places I am not able to discover. Soaring in the mountains made of clouds and swimming in oceans made of the night sky. I look down at the hiking boots and I feel my heart reaching out for them. Pleading for my hands to tug them on and experience all the emotions that I used to. All the things I saw when I went hiking, biking, and traveling in these old boots. But that was a long time ago, before I replaced them with these brown loafers.  My heart knows what my brain is too scared to admit. I miss traveling. Even if Emma won’t be there with me, I still miss it. I tie the laces in a knot and stand up. The memory hits me hard and I am not ready for it. I’m thrown back in time to when she was alive and we were ignorant to the cancer growing in her body. We were sitting on the edge of a cliff in Iceland, feet hanging off the side and I remember feeling like our toes were being pulled towards the lake below us. It’s as if they were magnetically attracted to the water. The stars were shining so bright that it washed her face in a pale golden light as she thought about the question I’d asked her. I said “Do you ever feel like jumping?” Emma took in a long breath, her eyes fixed on the horizon and she said, “No. I know that I would never jump because that would mean the end of our adventure, our story. Jumping off this cliff is like going back to the house in the middle of that boring little town that we fought so hard to get out of.” I reached over and grabbed her hand and even though it was cold this far up they were warm and soft in mine.

“We will never go back.” I said

As I reached down and pick up the shoes that have avoided for so long, several questions filter through my mind, is this really what I want?  Do I want to keep living in this depressed haze? Aren’t I dishonoring my late wife by not doing what we loved even though she is no longer with me? Wouldn’t she want me to finish our travels for us? I have wasted too much time already living my life the way we promised each other we never would. I walk out of the closet with the loafers cradled in my arms. My steps feel clunky and heavy and I relish the oddly satisfying change. I walk outside the back door, thinking about all the places that I haven’t gone and all the places that I would love to go. Places that I will go. I walk down the driveway to the silver trash cans sitting in front of the curb. As I lift the top up, I have a moment of hesitation. Should I really throw out something that I have held onto for so long? This is the only life that I have known for the past two and a half decades. It’s then that I realize that these shoes are what’s holding me back from happiness. They are holding me back from letting Emma go. So as the soft leather of the loafers leave my hands and tumble into the dark recess of the empty trash can, as the resounding bang echoes in my ears, I feel as though a weight has been lifted. I turn around and for the first time I notice that the Smiths next door painted their house a lively blue, I hear the birds singing their cheerful songs and I feel a rush of contentment flow through me like a cool breeze. The clouds have parted, the sun is shining down on me and I feel warm. I look above the Smith’s house and beyond the coffee shop on the corner and I see mountains on the horizon. I see a promise of adventure, I see an unclear future, and for the first time since Emma got sick, I am happy.