So you're cruising along at college, first semester winding down. And you're finally over first semester shock. Now the holidays are approaching, so it's back to your old town. Back to solid ground, your family, your rock. Yeah, there's nothing like heading homeward, to clear the mental fog. The photographs in your memory never blur. So you're thinking about your parents, your sister, Beth, and Spike, your dog. They're frozen in your head the way they were. 'Cause there's a footprint you left there, indelible and deep. It's the core of your identity, the principles you keep. Your footprint, your history, It's who you are. So you go to hug your parents,Beth calls you a "geek." And when you yell for Spike, your dad says "Son, we had to put him down last week." So you find yourself back in college, kind of shaken but okay. And you're quickly swept up again by freshman year. There's your roommate who hawks the bathroom, a new paper due each day. And your part-time job as a campus store cashier. Then it's suddenly spring vacation, it's home you go once more. And it's hard to believe the months have come and gone. You see that familiar driveway, and you open that front door. With that overwhelming feeling coming on. There's a footprint you left here, permanent and real. It's your constant, your anchor, unbendable like steel. Your footprint, your history, it's who you are. And the place looks so inviting, it's everything you'd hoped. And when you ask, "Where's my sister." Your mom says, "Dear, Beth and her boyfriend eloped." You like to think you're enlightened. You like to believe you're flexible and cool. Sure, things will change while you're away at school. But you worry the foundation you've been rooted to so long, is somehow less dependable, it's suddenly less strong. At least you're not like a tadpole, one of three-thousand eggs his mom unloads. Who never gets to know his parent... Toad. Yeah, at least you're not like that. No, you've still got your footprint, on that thread-bare "Welcome" mat. And a place to hang your hat. So your life comes along at college, and your worries slowly dim. opportunities to go home become more rare. You hear your mom has a brand new hair-do, and your bedroom's now a gym. Your dad bought a vintage Chevrolet Bel Air. Then you're soph*more and junior cla**es, disappear before your eyes. And you're thinking of life beyond these doors. Your old roommate is now your best friend, your latest paper won a prize. You now manage all the college campus stores. Still, there's a footprint cling to, is something you can't shake. A need that won't diminish, a bond that will not break. Your footprint, your history, it's who you are. And home's a place of comfort,nothing's ever forced. Then over dinner with your parents, they tell you they're getting divorced. Then you have a calm revelation. There's your world, seems to blow-up in your face. You see that footprints don't belong in just one place. They're in the life you've led, they're not firmly rooted, they will multiply and spread. On the path that lies ahead. Yes, your footprint goes with you,it's something you don't lose. From the family you were born with, to the family that you choose. Your footprint, your history, it's who you are. And the universe gets larger. And the cosmos will expand. But one thing never changes. Your footprint is right where you stand.