They don’t fit me, they are too big. Which, I guess, a father’s shoes should always be: too big to fill. They are military boots, worn in and proud, and they get shuffled from corner to corner of my house because I can’t wear them, and I can’t get rid of them, and I can’t pack them away (like so much else I have sitting around in trunks, bins and boxes).

They are artifacts of Troy, pieces of history I barely remember myself at this point. My father stopped wearing those boots when he retired from the military in 1975. I don’t remember seeing them on his feet, even though I do remember him in his uniform and his flight suit. I’m sure I saw those boots in action at some point but mostly I remember them sitting around in his closet. He kept them even though he had no reason to, and I guess I’ve inherited that along with the boots. He kept them for 20 years past his retirement and I’m sure I’ll keep them for longer than that.

I suspect that if they had fit, I would have worn them. Since they didn’t (and that’s probably for the best) they are simply here, sitting around, indicating the presence of someone who isn’t alive and hasn’t been for 17 years.

These are ghosts, to me. I don’t believe in supernatural spirits following me around, even if in moments of fancy I imagine such things. No, ghosts are these: objects connected to memories and feelings. Ghosts of my father are his boots, and his wristwatch, and so many other bits and pieces of his life that orbit me still. They bring him to mind at unexpected moments, live like shadowy creatures just out of touch of my day-to-day routine.

One day they won’t be there, just as he’s not here now. I don’t look forward to that day.