Boots, shoe polish, that brush, big rectangular soft bristled brush. Big enough to groom a horse brush, and a rag. Under the light over the kitchen sink, he set up for his boot shining. Disciplined. The boots for occasions. Occasions such as school board meetings, Legion meetings, or shopping for a new light fixture. Occasions that would warrant a boot that did not hold the dust from the field or the grease from a machinery repair. Those boots were the hand me downs from the polished occasions. He would stand at the kitchen sink. The distinct sharp odor of polish would fill the kitchen. I remember it to be evenings after mom had cleaned up the kitchen from its duty. To me it was like a ritual. A piece of discipline. Just one of his pieces of discipline that he handed down to us by simply doing. He would take his brush after ragging on his polish, this large soft bristled brush in his hand, he would swipe. swipe. swipe. In a rhythm back and forth long and full, short and swift across the toe. consistency, rhythmically, I'd sit in the big rocker in the dining room looking out the window trying to match my rocking with his rhythm. So often I try to match my breathing with his, saddled up to his side watching t.v. becoming one. becoming one with someone so large. Not in size, but large in ways unattainable. Discipline. I still strain to match my breath.