Your dad used to live in California. You'd go on long drives up into the Sierra Mountains. You'd stop in gee-dunk little towns, wizz by huge juniper trees, he taught you how to drive somewhere on those long drives. You'd pull over to take pictures of the queen ann's lace, pet the snotty felted noses of cows lured over by your mooing noises... and the grass in your hand, stuck through barbed wire fences. Under azure skies you'd speed. Go camping by mountain lakes, feed mallards breadcrumbs. Clean your dishes from rusted spigots splashing freezing water. There'd be farms with lolling muddy fields, pungent with horse manure in the paddocks.
Every once and a while, he'd invite whoever he was dating to come join you. Linda taught you how to embroider, recite lewis carrols' the jabberwocky, and how to wish on white horses.
Every once in a while you’re speeding through Virginia, just driving to get away, just to feel unattached, just to feel expendable, you'll see a horse. you'll slow down, crane your neck, like it will make the wish more feasible and even if he's dappled you'll say "lucky lucky white horse, lucky lucky me. lucky lucky white horse, bring good luck to me."
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