RayDillon

"Dad's Boots" By Ray Dillon I still heard his boots when I woke up. No smell of pancakes. No morning news. Just squeaking and creaking, old leather boots. *** I wished I could just go back to sleep, to keep dreaming, but I knew that wouldn't happen now. I sat up in the bottom bunk and scratched my feet on the thick burgundy carpet. The comforting leather creak was pushed out of my head as a truck boomed down the street. I tried to recall my dream, but couldn't. Bobby's bunk was at my eye level. Only his hair was poking out of the covers. I shivered hard, grabbed a t-shirt and orange, hooded sweater off the floor, and hurriedly pulled the