Eleven

“Let the child drive, so,” the locals told my mother. She had chartered a horse-drawn gypsy caravan for two weeks in Ireland, even though she was scared of Equus.

“Yeah, Mom,” I chimed in. “Let me drive!” I was eleven. Horse-mad. But no, she gripped the reins and struggled through despite high anxiety. Brave woman.

Sandra Cisneros wrote a short story called “Eleven,” and in it, Rachel believes that she is every age she has already been. Some days she feels two, and other days eight, and sometimes eleven, her actual age. 

So when my inner eleven-year-old popped up a few weeks ago, I listened. She is not afraid of much. She’s already survived severe upheaval. She loves animals and water and nature. So much to see! She doesn’t like cities or crowds or screaming adults. Those are scary, not the ocean or mountains or flowers or god. Or Habibi. My inner eleven-year-old is thrilled with the boat. “Let’s go!” she said. So we’re heading north for Isla Isabela, where it is clear and clean and the swimming is fine. And when Anxiety starts screaming about the motor and capsizing and other high-definition terrors, I let the child drive. I watch dolphins escort us out of the bay, with a phalanx of pelicans cruising barely above the sea.

And I remember how happy and relaxed I was in Ireland. We didn’t travel far, only to the Philbin’s Farm. My mother halted the vehicle (“Whoa!”), set Darkie free in the pasture, and then went to the pub and ratcheted down. 

My brother (five years old) followed Mr. Philbin around all day, while I learned to ride bareback, and befriended the horses from other caravans parked hither and yon, and none too close. It was peaceful. Twilight ‘til 11 p.m. And the dwelling was snug and charming, a lot like the tiny house on wheels I’d buy decades later, with a stove and benches that converted to berths. We had everything we needed.

When the two weeks were up, the other caravanning families were buddies, and a plan was hatched. While Mom held Darkie’s reins again (I did ask, but still no), I clasped the reins of another horse pulling another caravan — all the way back to the village where we started, unbeknownst to La Madre. So proud, I was. So pleased. I knew I could do it!

Let the child drive, so. She’s not afraid of much.