[RYAN]
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 mem'ry 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 run to hug your parents
And 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 hogs the bathroom,
A new paper due each day.
And your part-time job as a campus store cashier.

Then it's suddenly spring vacation,
And 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 ev'rything you'd hoped.
You ask, "Where's my sister?"
Your mom says, "Dear - Beth and her boyfriend eloped."
You'd 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,
Is 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 toads.

Yeah, at least you're not like that.
No, you've still got your footprint,
On that threadbare welcome mat.
And a place to hang your hat.

So your life hums along at college
And your worries slowly dim.
Opportunities to go home become more rare.
You hear your mom has a brand new hairdo,
And your bedroom's now a gym.
Your dad bought a vintage Chevrolet Bel Air.

Then your soph'more and junior classes
Disappear before your eyes.
And you're thinking about a 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
You cling to.
It's 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
Where nothing's ever forced.
Then over dinner with your parents,
They tell you they're getting divorced.

Then you have a calm revelation,
There as 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.
But 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 fam'ly you were born with,
To the fam'ly 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.