Let me tell you about my Bomber Boots.

In the early fall of 2010 when I was eighteen I was scheduled for surgery. I had grown a bit since my fall from outer space. All the titanium screws and plates hadn’t grown with me and they were naturally causing me pain. They were no longer needed and had to be removed. I’d be off my feet again for a little bit and the doctors said that if all went well, I’d be fine but should wear sturdy boots or braces for a while.

My mother looked me up and down the day before the surgery and dragged me, limping, up to the attic.

“I kept a couple of things for you from your Father. I never figured out a good time to give them to you until now.” she said as she pulled a nondescript carton off a shelf and blew the dust from it. Coughing on the dust cloud, we opened the carton and looked inside. There were a pair of Military style Paratrooper boots that lace all the way up to the knee. They looked almost brand new.

“You look to be about the same size as your Father, so maybe these will fit. Your Grandfather made these for me to give to him, but I never got the chance.” she sniffed as she handed me the boots.

They fit perfectly and looked totally bad-ass! I thanked her profusely through sobs of my own.

Under the boots there was an even greater treasure. An ancient black leather bomber jacket with a cinched waist and fur collar. On the left breast is an embroidered patch with the name “Matthews” stitched in green silk. 

“It’s a little big on you, but I’m sure you’ll fill it out eventually. Just take good care of it.”

Mom had met my Father at a swanky function being held at the Royal Ontario Museum when she was just starting as an accounting clerk fresh out of University. He was somewhat older and swept her off her feet. He was “With the Military” and was constantly being deployed all over the world. The brief times they spent together were intense and they eloped. She got pregnant with me and he was deployed again. “Officially on a diplomatic mission to Afghanistan.” He disappeared and after a time, declared dead.

After many hugs and tears and the telling of their whirlwind romance we came back to reality.

Down stairs, I looked sheepishly at Dad, while wearing the jacket and boots.

“Oh good, Joe.” he said with a warm smile.

I softly said “He’s my Father, but you're my Dad.”

He held me at arms length and chuckled a bit. “You need a haircut. Maybe just buzz the sides into a Mohawk. In that jacket, with the kilt and boots, you look like a 1980’s Punk! Maybe I’ll pierce your nose while we’re at it.” he said to ease the tension.

“Nobody’s cutting this hair…” that trailed half way down my back in a loose braid.