They are the only ones who carry me. I am the only one who wears them. Two muddy boots with muddy soles and scuffed toes. Two who find their place in the garage. Two worn boots here to help me. From the kitchen, my family can smell them, but I claim they can’t.

Their work is underestimated. They carry me through mud and muck. They get stepped on and battered in and squished between the mud,  the black rubber kicks the dust with strong toes, never failing me. This is how they protect.

Let one forget a boot is just a boot, they would understand the silent friend who guides you, one step at a time. Squish, squish, squish they say as I maneuver through the mud. They guide.

When I am too lost and too dirty and can’t find my way through the mud, when I need a clear path, then it is when I throw on my boots. When there are other boots, I still choose those brown and pink Fatbabys. Two who carry despite their warry. Two who squish and never stop squishing. Two whose job is to protect and protect.