Hands Like Leather

One hand hard and cracked.
The other made of steel.
“I lost this hand because I was lazy,” he’d say.
Then he’d continue working.
The cowboy hat never left his head unless he was sleeping.
“Don’t touch a man’s hat,” he’d say.
His real hand would work swiftly.
His other one made of steel would hold whatever he worked on in one place.
“You’ll make a good wife some day,” he’d say.
Then tell me how he wanted to walk me down the aisle.
The closest thing to a father I had.
“Don’t hold your horn, it won’t honk,” he’d say.
While I rode that just old enough colt
I can’t remember how many times he’d help me up after being bucked off.
“Keep your toes up and never trust your horse,” he’d say.
While he tried to teach me the right way to train our horses
“Never ride a horse that’s lame. He’ll be worse the next day,” he’d say.
His broken hands never wavering from braiding that new headstall.
“If you do it more than three times, you’re wasting your time.
Horses get impatient,” he’d say.
As he dusted me off from my fall.
His old boots were well worn.
“Nothing like a good pair of boots,” he’d say.
Wrinkles pulled together as he smiled.
Moustache twitching while he laughed.
“Punkin’, make sure the man you fall in love with,
loves the things that you do,” he’d say.
Then he’d go into the house to wash up for supper.
Up at dawn, in at dusk.
“Animals need us—without us they starve. Take care of them first,” he’d say.
Hit hat hung on the hook and his boots in the mudroom.
Never forgetting to thank Grandma for the meal and tucking me in at night.

by Brianna Pachowicz