Grief Theme Analysis

It was quick, my father’s death […]. As soon as he took his last breath, Ma and I were forced to think of the future. Even in death, the poor were denied the luxury of grieving. There just wasn’t time […]. [W]hen the undertakes came to wheel my father’s lifeless body out to the hearse, it was as if they took my childhood with them.

Slowly [Dolly] opened the lid and removed a pair of shiny black boots […]. Although I was excited, nothing came from my mouth […]. Next thing I knew, Dolly was bent down untying the laces on my father’s boots […].

Standing with her arms fully stretched, she held the boots away from her as if she was handling something unspeakable. Suddenly I found my voice.

“I might keep ‘em if ya don’t mind, Dolly […]. They were my father’s,” I said softly.

I ran during the day and I ran at night. In fact, I ran so much that I didn’t bother changing into my father’s old boots anymore. Ma and I both had our secrets now […]. I avoided her as best I could, preferring to spend my time with Nostrils or Squizzy or Dolly. At least with them I didn’t have to pretend.

True, I had been wearing my father’s boots for some months now. Wearing them was easy […]. Any mug who knew the art of tying laces could do that. But filling them, now that was a different story altogether.

“Did ya ‘appen to know, Charlie,” [Ma] said, pouring the tea, “that me and Alice ‘ave somethin’ in common? […] It just so ‘appens that Alice loves to dance.”

Right then, the strangest thing happened. A vision of my father appeared in the living room as clear as Ma was sitting in the chair opposite […]. He raised his eyebrows, then smiled.

“Giddyup, Charlie.” He winked.

Then he was gone.

Full of rage, I dropped by eyes to the ground and saw my shiny black boots. Right then, something clicked inside my head. Everything became clear. Silently I left the office and made my way to the laundry. After changing into my father’s old boots, I strode back down the hall. I […] placed the boots on the table, right under Squizzy’s nose.

As I sat against the bed, the stash reminded me of the play money my father used to make me, and how I’d pile it into neat rows, always asking for more […]. But this was no longer a game, and I was no longer a boy.

[… I] began untying the laces on my father’s boots. For a moment I was back sitting on his bed again. I remembered his skeleton arms and how they’d struggled with the weight of the boots as he passed them to me […]. Maybe he’d planned all along to be here with me––here when the stakes were high, when I needed him most.

As I turned the knob, Ma appeared behind me.

“Where are ya goin’, Charlie?” she asked.

“I’m goin’ runnin’, Ma.”

“Runnin’? Where to?”

I dropped my eyes to my father’s boots, then looked up and smiled.

“Who knows, Ma. Who knows.”