Forgot your password?

We just sent you an email, containing instructions for how to reset your password.

Sign in

  • We used to go to my grandmother's house like clockwork on holidays and during summers. My mother was from states and states away as far as you could drive in a day with a stationwagon full of bored children and their packed-up pent-up belongings in a day.

    One summer or maybe it was Easter spring, I sat in the yard dirt behind the screened-in porch that smelled overwhelmingly of the rows and rows of boxwoods, I sat in the dirt and dug. And dug. And made a muddy hole.

    I was too old really to be engaged in running my hands through the filth. I should be off reading Nancy Drew or drawing. I should be chasing barncat's kittens in the barn or helping the adults ready dinner. Yet, that day, all I was content to just muck up this here earth.

    Without digging for too far or too long, I found this tiny horse with a hollow belly. My mother grew up with three brothers. It must have belonged to one of them. Cowboys, Indians, Knights, Battles or something was played and this tiny horse was left outside in the dirt and forgotten.

    I smiled at the luck of unearthing this beautiful object. And slid it into my warm jean shorts pocket without word or breath. I was worried that if I told anyone I'd found it that they'd want to take it from me.

    When our house burnt, I found it in what was left of my room in what was left of a sock drawer. Safe and sound.

    I hold on to this horse still. Always better lucky than good.
    • Share

    Connected stories:


Collections let you gather your favorite stories into shareable groups.

To collect stories, please become a Citizen.

    Copy and paste this embed code into your web page:

    px wide
    px tall
    Send this story to a friend:
    Would you like to send another?

      To retell stories, please .

        Sprouting stories lets you respond with a story of your own — like telling stories ’round a campfire.

        To sprout stories, please .

            Better browser, please.

            To view Cowbird, please use the latest version of Chrome, Safari, Firefox, Opera, or Internet Explorer.