He Never Gave Me a Pony

Story by Gia Porter

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I stood in the pouring rain. It made for a cold October morning. I was one of the four people who attended his service. Two women and a man stood there silently. One of the women kept brushing her eyes with the back of her hand. I had no idea who they were. A part of me was curious, but it soon passed. The cold rain was drenching, and I felt it go right through me. My thoughts began to drift. I thought about the man lying in the silver-colored coffin.

He lifted me high on his shoulders and galloped around the house. His large hands would hold me tightly. I would laugh, he would sweat. I was only a few feet tall, but I felt on top of the world. He told me one day I will ride a real pony and win contests and lots of medals.    

I looked forward to that day.

He visited often. He always brought gifts. The best gift was the cowgirl outfit. It was a black skirt and vest with beautiful sparkles all over it. The boots and beaded rim hat completed the outfit. 

He told me I can see you now, my cowgirl sitting high on her pony.

I looked forward to that day.

The next time I saw him was July 4th. His visits weren’t as frequent. Neither were his gifts. I did receive a t-shirt with a picture of a pony that read, It’s a Perfect Pony Day. I wore it when he took me to the amusement park. I had long outgrown the cowgirl outfit. I enjoyed the rides, especially the merry-go-round. I rode the same pony over and over again. His large hands held me tight. He would say I can see you now riding your pony. You and your pony just won first place. 

I looked forward to that day.  

Years passed before I saw him again. He was in a cold dark room lying on a shiny table. His body was covered with a white sheet. They asked me to identify the body. They said his car hit a tree. There was alcohol in his system. His head hit the windshield. His face was unrecognizable. I told them it wasn’t necessary; I recognize the large hands. They told me your phone number was in his pocket. They handed me a neatly folded piece of paper. They also handed me a photograph of a young girl on a pony, a real pony. She was holding a huge silver-colored trophy.   

I hated that day.

Gia Porter is writer of flash, fiction and poetry. Her work has been featured in the Garfield Lake Review and Fresh Words: An International Literary Magazine.

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