The Old Man

His pale blue eyes stare into mine.
That is the stare of happiness.
His silver hair is more than likely standing on end
Under that sweat-stained straw hat.
“Oh boy, it’s gonna be a hot one again.”
The wrinkled hands of a second generation Hereford rancher
Lifted that white-hot iron rod.
The retching smell of burning fur and hide stings my nostrils and makes my eyes burn like hell.
“Come on, wrestle that calf of yours to the ground!”
That old man believed I could do it and so I did.
After the chaos is over, I ride my pony
I glance to see if anyone could see me do this all by myself.
There he was, that pale-eyed old man with that stained old hat.
“Kick ’em up my little cowgirl.”
As we rounded the corral I saw the old man looking weaker.
My pony grows old and soon fades.
I land safely on my feet and I am a 14-year old.
The old man waves goodbye; I cry to see him silently say
“I love you.”
My eyes finally focus around the fog
There he is, in still life… in that old photograph.
I clutch it tightly to my chest.
He is gone… He is not going to be coming back home to his
little cowgirl, his granddaughter.

Lori McPherson