“He told a story with his whole body. As his deep voice painted the picture, his sun-soaked arms would gesture with maestro-like emphasis. His bushy eyebrows would dance little jigs during the well-timed pauses. His blue eyes would spear into our shy glances for added effect. All while we, a collection of ponytails, cut-off jeans, freckles, and bandanas, sat on hay bales or stood next to stall doors listening intently to his cadence braid boastful strands of his past into the present.

‘I’m going to write a book about you someday,’ I would sometimes insert at the end of his stories, my form of applause. I imagined writing the story of growing up riding horses in Virginia for a ‘colorful’ trainer. Back then, I wasn’t able to see the entire landscape. My vision was only set to portrait. His portrait, never mine.”