The rideshare driver didn’t say much when the pavement gave way to gravel. The GPS had gone silent five miles back, replaced by fence lines and fields that rolled on without apology.
“Out here?” the driver asked.
“Yep,” he answered.
The car slowed beside a weathered mailbox that still leaned slightly to the left, just like it had when he was twelve. The old farmhouse sat beyond it—white paint worn thin, porch wide and waiting, fields stretching in every direction like open arms that had never quite closed.
He stepped out and back in time.
The door shut with a hollow thud, and for a moment he just stood there, breathing. The air smelled like sun-warmed hay, red dirt, and something sweet drifting from the far pasture. It didn’t smell like city rain on concrete. It didn’t smell like cologne and polished floors and late nights pretending.
He had that inner voice that had changes so much in the last few years. "You thought this place was prison and you hated the decay, now you know it smelled like truth".
He looked down at the boots he was wearing—expensive, sharp, chosen carefully once upon a time. Tony Lamas. Polished shine. They had looked good in mirrors, under office lights, across bar counters. They had added height. They had added confidence. They had added a version of him that never quite fit.
He was happy to take them off for good- he knew there were some cow patty crusted Brogans in the barn that likely had not moved in years.
He tossed them on the bags that were the only reminders of that far away wasteland of regret.
When was the last time he walked barefoot and free?
The gravel was rough at first. Then the grass met him—cool and forgiving. He stepped forward, and the earth gave just enough beneath his weight. No echo. No cement. No hard return of footsteps trying to prove something.
Just ground. Every step felt like it was peeling something away.
He had walked far from here. Walked into rooms where he learned how to smile without meaning it. Walked streets that never slept, under lights that never let you see the stars. He had worn boots too tight for too long, marching to a rhythm that promised success but never rest.
He had looked good but it had never felt right. It never was him.
The sun pressed warm against his face now, and he closed his eyes, letting it settle into his skin like it used to when he’d lie in the pasture and watch clouds turn into cattle and ships and dragons. The wind moved through the tall grass, brushing his legs. It carried the faint sound of wind chimes from the porch.
He started walking. Not toward anything specific. Just kept moving forward.
The field opened up around him, wide sky stretching overhead with nothing to prove and nowhere else to be. His Sunday best would have grass stains soon. He almost laughed at the thought. His mother used to fuss over that. His father used to shrug and say, “It’ll wash.”
The dirt clung to his feet. Honest ground. Not polished floors. Not city sidewalks that burned in summer and froze in winter. This soil knew him. It remembered the boy who ran through it barefoot, who climbed fences and fell and got back up without checking who was watching.
Out here, there was nothing left he had to be.
The house grew smaller behind him as he walked deeper into the field. He hadn’t meant to go far, but his feet kept moving as if they were reacquainting themselves with the land. The wind ran through his hair. He tipped his head back and let it.
He had left chasing something—status, approval, a version of manhood stitched together from magazine covers and boardrooms. Nights that made him stronger, yes. Harder, too. But stronger in ways that felt earned, not borrowed.
He sat down and looked back to the sun.
The farmhouse looked smaller now, resting against the horizon. The porch swing swayed slightly. He could almost picture his mother’s hands gripping the railing, shading her eyes.
Then he heard it—
A car door slamming in the distance.
The sharp sound carried across the open field. He had walked farther than he realized.
He squinted toward the house. At first, they were just shapes against the white porch and pale sky. Small. Almost fragile at that distance. Then the shapes began to move.- They were running.
One figure first. Then another. Arms lifting. Waving. Running as if they had been waiting at the door for years and finally saw him not just passing through—but coming home.
He felt something rise in his chest, not loud or dramatic. Just steady and certain - They looked small from here, but he could see the joy in the way they ran.
He looked down at his feet, dusted in dirt and grass, planted in the only soil that had ever known his name before he tried to rename himself.
The sun was sinking low now, but his heart felt strong. He smiled. It felt good to be back where he belonged.
Song: Barefoot Where I Belong
