On Oblivion

MEMOIR (and) GRAND PRIZE FOR MEMOIR IN PROSE OR POETRY

JOE WILKINS

If, when she was sixteen, she’d hacked off her ass-length, dust-colored hair like she threatened, her friends would’ve clapped their hands over their mouths and giggled. The boys would’ve shaken their heads and called her Butch or Prairie Cactus—but she wouldn’t have cared. No, she’d have started wearing her father’s red-checked jacket, smoking Camels, laughing with her eyes—she’d have broken hearts.

If she’d stayed in school like she promised you she would, she’d have been eligible for the amateur rodeo circuit that summer, barrel racing, and she’d have won at Brockton and called you. And even though you never cared for rodeos, you’d have driven hours through the dark just to sit with her on the banks of the Missouri and drink Mountain Dew until four in the morning, and maybe she’d have lain her head against your shoulder as the sun struck a new fire in the sky.

But if she’d stayed for love, you must admit, it probably wouldn’t have been with you. No, he’d have been dark-eyed but taller, say six-foot-two, his blonde hair always on his ears. For the most part, he’d have said very little but surprised her now and then with things like, This dust ain’t so bad, The jackpines bend like grass in the wind, Here, let me help you with your blouse. But too: he’d be hard to get along with Wednesdays, home from hours in the sun—always the cracked skin of his hands, always that burn of wind around his eyes.

If she’d never left Montana, her horses would still graze across the river. You’d walk to the bridge in the mornings, like you do now, but they’d be there, snorting, crow-hopping, offering the great flowers of their noses over the fence wire. You’d cluck to them, stroke the coarse hairs of their throats, call their names—Franklin, Loretta, Gypsy Kisses.

 

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