Anya Rallison

My Father's Gift Horse

It was summer in Florida, and the days of August were hot and sweaty. The air hung thick with moisture, clinging to the skin and dripping from the brow. The damp heat was something I was well accustomed to, but the feeling that accompanied it was far divorced from my childhood. Back then it meant dripping ice cream, sandy shoes, and long, dehydrated days at the beach. It meant my mother, brandishing a newspaper like a bat, trying to corral me and my siblings back into the apartment. Now, however, the sun was angry and so was I.