We sat here, on this, our porch, all those balmy evenings. Not talking, no need to really, no need to do nothin’. Anyhow, we were usually too tired to talk after such long hard days. The horse would buckle or the hay would be wet; such is the life on the ranch, such was our life on this ranch.
I haven’t allowed myself to miss you until now. Not sure what prompted it, not sure what brought it on. But I miss you, miss your smell, miss the way you would saunter in like John Wayne, pull my pants down and call me Injun. ‘Boys, we got us an erection over here!’
Perhaps it is these endless twilights that call me to you, or perhaps you are nearer, I don’t know, don’t know to say. I’ve never been one for the spiritual, my momma would go on and on…
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wildeoats 