My father long-gone, I open one of his books, Bonnard or Vuillard—torn paper flutters to the floor. His drawing of two cows, one little & one big, their outlines wobbly as calf legs. A door opens to that day when he told me stories about a year he spent roping cattle, being a cowboy. We rode through the valley. Cigarette between his teeth, he let go the reins, dropped them over the horse’s neck and balanced a pad on the pommel of his saddle, sketched the cows. I was ten and decided right then to be a rancher when I grew up, not some dolled-up TV rodeo queen, no sequins for me, I’d be a real rancher. Droughts, blizzards, midnight calving, I’d take them all in stride. Steady breath of a beast beneath me, freezing time in a frame, just a drawing of two cows, one little & one big.