That summer at the ranch, one seasonbefore Stanley hung himself in the toolshed,with rope worn from countless tie-downs–choosing his own handiwork over cancer–there was a wildness in the air, crowsbreaking formation, jittering overhead,as we cooled our horses past dusk,the four of us restless.
We leaned against the holding pen,our cigarette tips skimming the darkness;I sank into your story as if it were my own.Whiskey, a shotgun, and your father’s rage,blown past all holding, left your mother crumpledon the cabin floor, more broken than bloody.You were twelve, motionless, dead-numb watchingyour father pack the one good horse and disappearsomewhere up in the high desert. Minutes,maybe hours later, you walked out alone,never to see either of them again.
Suddenly it was night, and the stalled horsesrustled, whinnied now and then, echoing againstthe still blue hills, forlorn sounds without answeror antidote. More than anything I wantedto touch you but it had become impossibleto cross the distance between us. We held ourhuman shapes but now they seemed mere outlinesfor purposes of classification: person, not sky.There was a confusion of eyes; though reasonstands they were yours, dark and bottomless as the sky.
Maybe it was only the boy I could fathom:pale, thin, bare-armed, bruised at the wristsas if someone had yanked him long and hard.Your arms were shut against your sides, withoutapparent scar, and suddenly I was struck byhow very late it was. Still crossing worlds ofsunburnt hills, that boy was years from here.I would never touch him.
***
Photo by Harbey Valdez on Unsplash