We children were told to stay off the horse.
But children will be children, adventurous,
and wondering why all the silly rules.
What could be problematic about riding the horse?
My cousins take turns first,
then my sister, and then it’s my turn.
I step up on the fence to hop on its saddle-less back.
The horse just walks around the yard a bit, randomly,
but I imagine it is galloping across an open field,
helping me escape the posse,
my gun in its holster and my hair
tucked under my cowboy hat.
My brother is the last to go.
He is hesitant,
not that he’s a rule follower.
He’s just nervous about being so high off the ground.
We coax him, tease him even, until he climbs up.
The horse walks a bit,
but then heads directly toward the electric fence.
My brother was shocked by that fence once;
he panics and tries to get off.
The horse bucks and my brother falls to the ground,
whimpering.
His wrist is twisted out of shape,
clearly fractured.
And though my brother shows a brave face,
the rest of us kids are in a panic.
We plead with him not to tell anyone,
but he just looks at his wrist.
How can he say nothing?
He needs to go to the hospital.
We encourage him, then,
to lie about how it happened.
Not a fall from the horse,
but a fall from the hay loft.
But we know the truth will come out.
My brother was the worst when it came to lying.
Everybody could tell.
In the house, the parents are calm.
No one screams when they see my
brother’s misshapen wrist.
It’s just another farm injury.
We children are never scolded and when
my brother returns from the hospital with his fresh white cast,
we are eager to sign our names to it.
Beside my name, I draw a stick picture of a horse.