Since I can’t remember her name, I just call her Georgia.
One summer when I was twelve, I was taken to an old cowboy’s ranch to learn how to ride and handle a horse. I met a girl my age whose name I can’t remember. She had jet-black hair, tan skin, and was kind to me. We became friends, spending two to three days a week together. Toward the end of the summer and the lessons, she told me her dad was being deployed to Georgia, and her family was moving. She had only one more week coming to the ranch. I wanted to see her, but payment for my lessons had run out. I asked to go again but was told I had to pay. The adults in my life said no, but if I could come up with the money, they would take me. As a kid, I collected coins, cigar tubes full of dimes, silver dollars, half dollars and old quarters. I tore through my coin collection, counting every single one. I just barely had enough. The next week, the cowboy looked at me strangely as I counted out cigar tube after cigar tube, filled with dimes, silver dollars, half dollars, and every coin I had. He accepted it as payment, which meant I got to spend one more day with her. That day, the cowboy had us ride double on a horse. I was too intimidated to touch her, so I held onto the saddle. The cowboy was mad and told me next time to wrap my arms around her waist. We had a late lunch on a bale of hay. She shared her snapple with me, and I fell in love with her. She gave me a hug goodbye at the end of the day. Since I can’t remember her name, I just call her Georgia.
