Distant Footsteps
by Odin Roark


How present
This past
Called memory.

Hollow sole dragging,
Hobnail boots
Caked with crud,
Mud,
And oil.
Atop the landing
"Drop them greasy clothes,"
Came the sometimes loving voice,
The sometimes malevolent voice,
But always his wife's warning
My mother's caring way.

So many years past,
When linoleum's impoverished sound
Is so remembered.
Stepping from stove to table,
Her laboring hands
Hefting the pressure cooker
Laden with steam softened cracked wheat,
(Barely eatable for a young boy)
That day's nourishment
Weighing upon
Forever toiling legs,
Cushioned by sheepskin slippers
Whispering their shuffled prayer,
“I care.”

Generously ladled,
Chew-your-brain-loose grains,
Fit for health,
Unfit for a kid,
Layered my stomach,
Fortified my heart,
Prepped me more able
To gather reverie
So dear.

Then…

There was the sound.
So ethereal.
Heavenly I was told.
Of bare feet
Curling the once-a-day-vacuumed
Pride and joy carpet of sage green wool
Replacing recently vanquished
Throw rug jigsaw mess.
My early youth playtime was
Our palace place,
The living room.

Scrunching pleasures,
Toes finding carpet’s pleasure,
Dad's feet,
Awful specimens,
Calloused from years hard labor.
Mother's feet,
Preserved with nightly hot water soaks.
(Epson salts)
When we could afford it,
Making toes worthy of pedicure,
Never afforded.

Me…

Always wore my socks,
Heavy wool,
Darned when worn spots
Yelled loud enough.
Mixed colors
When necessary,
Yet always comfy.
Homey,
Loving cover,
For footsteps
Unaware of the journey ahead,
When steps would have to become strides,
Leaps,
Bounds,
And eventually,
Idleness.

So today…
These footfalls of then
Becoming echoes,
Foreshadowing footsteps to come,
When a once stubborn child
Needed to listen carefully,
Or miss the lessons
Still alive today
From faraway footsteps
Passing nearby.