Not to Give In

‘‘I wouldn’t take a horse
out in this kind of weather,’’
I told my father, when he asked me
to jump on a horse and get the mail.
Rain falling, autumn chill braced
the air, road muddy, mailbox
a half mile away. I slogged
in rubber boots on determined feet
warmed by burning indignation.
I slipped and slid on the grassy edge
of the road, trees in the grove
waved at me with bare branches,
a flock of wild geese flew over,
I could hear their gabble
but they flew above low clouds.
I tucked the mail inside my bib
(overalls) and began to feel foolish.
After dinner on a rainy day
Father would have time to read the mail,
and who could ride Beauty better
than I? Father depended on me
to bring home the cows, run errands
to the neighbors, and here I tried
to make him ashamed for his request.
I slogged back, bent against
the southeast wind, determined now
to be magnanimous when he apologized.
But no one noticed I’d been away, took it
for granted I brought home the mail.
As I sulked at the dinner table, no one
saw the man in me who had not knuckled under
and made his own decision.