Then, Grandpa bids me continue to the house.
I sing along to Lainey Wilson’s “Wildflowers and Wild Horses,” letting the music sink into my bones.
My eyes drift to the Starborn Range. Lush. Darker than it should be.
The wind hums through the open window. Dust motes shimmer in the light.
White noise crackles over the radio, then clears. Then, back to the song, though more distant, hazy.
Memory washes over me of Mom complaining,Never can get a good signal through here. Not much she liked about this place.
Distant clouds build over the range, but I focus on the road.
I’ve replayed that argument in my head countless times, trying to fix it from a distance. Mom always told me Grandpa loved his land more than anything else, even family.
As much as I love her, I never saw it that way, though I stayed away to keep the peace.
To me, Grandpa’s love of the land isn’t a preference. It’s structure.
Mom never got that because she doesn’t understand singular commitment—obsession. But I do, though I channel mine into finding patterns, decoding meaning, linguistics in symbol and rock.
Another part of the reason I’m here.
Grandma stands on the porch, hands wrapped in a pastel apron covered in frills. It always smelled like cookies and felt soft as butter on my cheeks.
I pull up to the end of the driveway and park. Nothing is the same, and nothing’s changed.
Same porch, though a bit saggier. Same white paint with pale, gray-blue trim, peeling in places now.
Wood smoke curls from the chimney. Tall lilac bushes burgeon with purple flowers, their saccharine sweetness filling my nostrils.
The distant smell of butter and cornbread draw me up the stairs to Grandma.
I tower over her, voice thickening, as I wrap her in my arms. She looks frailer, hair more white than blonde these days. Back hunched, thinner, too, though her penetrating hazel eyes sparkle with the same stubborn warmth I remember from my youth.
“Grandma,” I breathe, voice catching.
“Jo,” she whispers, clinging tighter, as if she never plans on letting go. I don’t want her to.
The thunder of hooves makes me ease back. Grandpa dismounts slowly, his muscles and bones visibly groaning. A spry man replaced by a slower version, though his build remains robust and rugged.
He joins the hug, the three of us embracing for a long time. I sniffle, bringing up a hand to wipe my moist cheeks.
“I never thought so much time would pass after my last summer here. I’m sorry I stayed away for so long.”
Grandpa straightens, tut-tuts like it’s nothing. Grandma apologizes back, the words sticking to her tongue. I can tell by the bewilderment on both of their faces that they still don’t fully understand what happened.
Neither do I.
My mind flashes back to sunny summers, hands trailing waist-high grass in the meadow where horses grazed.
Eating blackberries until my tongue turned blue.
Grandma still smells like her plants, lilacs and roses. Grandpa, like old leather and earth.
They squeeze me close as we walk through the front door, the screen still squeaking, room still frozen in another time.
All cowboy and Western art. No computers, cell phones, or signs of digital life.
