1.
I saw my first cowboy when I was eight years old. Reaching my head out of the passenger seat window as Aunt Heather idled the car to a stop, I breathed in the wet, earthy air—a smell I was unfamiliar with. A tan, sloping hat shaded the cowboy’s face from the sun. He stood in the center of a circular paddock guiding a horse with a lead into a radial trot. His hand was steady. The breeze blew through his plaid button up only to move to the flourishing trees and quarter horses that dappled the hilly pastures beyond. His oily face was tense and lightly streaked with dust kicked up by the horse’s hooves. He made a clicking sound with his mouth, not noticing us.
“That’s Papa Larry,” said Aunt Heather. “Your grandfather.”
The horse whinnied. I realized this man was no longer a stranger, but a collage of my dad’s memories. Papa Larry. A clenched jaw, strong arms holding a set of twin baby boys, the same arms throwing one of them against a wall a few years later, then a door slammed, and a returned wedding invitation marked, “No.”
I wanted to go back to when he was just some cowboy.
2.
Indiana country is beautiful in the summer. Trees curl over the greenery, shading the horses who spend their days avoiding the blazing sun. Farmers set out bales of hay and the carnival is the closest thing to a city. At night, screen doors creak and children catch fireflies. I remember the smell of burning wood and cut grass. The sound of gravel beneath truck tires, the feeling of dirt between my toes. It was the second time I had come to Papa Larry’s, and my dad’s first.
We walked along the stables that day, before Mamaw’s funeral. My brother and I fed apples to the horses who curiously leaned their heads over the stall doors, my dad and Papa Larry a few paces ahead. We liked the horses, the way their big yellow teeth crunched into the grainy texture. Papa Larry asked my dad so many questions. How is Lindsay? Where will you travel next? You coached on the same court as Roger Federer? How is your brother? Are these two kids of yours playing tennis, too? All code for: what have I missed?
After two days, Indiana was far behind us. My dad sat in the passenger seat while Aunt Heather drove, the kids in the back. Trees passed us in a blur, the winding interstate seeming to unfold forever. Beads of sweat, so slowly, collected on my dad’s temple. His jaw clenched and unclenched. He looked out the window, fidgeted with his iPhone. Then his body rolled in waves until the first sob escaped.
“I don’t know,” he said, hands over his face. “I don’t know.”
Sevyn Michaela-Rose Waters
Nonfiction
BFA Writing 2023
Atlanta, Georgia
