My younger son still holds my hand. He reached for my hand yesterday when we walked around IFA Country Store. We looked at baby chicks, ducks and turkeys. We looked at the bunnies. We saw animal traps for Racoons and Skunks and Armadillos. I hate Racoons. We looked at cowboy boots and western wear. I felt the cowgirl in me rising. My Grandma was a cowgirl, but then my dad was split; I used to watch him change from his work boots and straw hat to a conductors tuxedo.
Now I’m caught in American’s suburbia; somewhere between the country and the town, unable to commit to either. A quarter of my blood is cowgirl but not a quarter of my life. I’m jealous of every shit-kicker out there. I write stories about women who train horses. But it is just my imagination and when I’m in IFA I’m jealous of every person who walks down the isle with a real need to be there. Buying tack, feed and traps.
My younger son still holds my hand. I remember when my sister told me her son still held her hand. He was ten then. Now he is seventeen and handholding is long gone. The next time he holds her hand will be when she is on her deathbed. That really bites. Nobody told me that we raise children only to loose them.
4 comments:
He doesn't hold my hand, but sometimes he comes up behind me and puts me in a choke hold with his arm around my neck! And somehow it feels just as good as holding hands.
Hold onto that hand as long as you can.
holding hands in ifa is good there are scary people there. i will have to tell you a story some time, you know when i come to visit...!
wow erica, i love your writing. i'm thrilled to be back in touch with you in this way :)
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