luke jones

The pickup truck rumbled along the dusty drive, kicking up a cloud of ochred-colored dirt that swirled in the afternoon sun. Pulling into the yard, I spotted Grandma by the fence line, her hand resting on a post as she chatted with someone. The light was hitting them just right, casting a warm, golden glow on the familiar landscape of the ranch. I killed the engine and stepped out, the gravel crunching under my boots. As I got closer, the figure talking to Grandma became clearer. He was sitting on a plastic lawn chair, a dark cowboy hat pulled low over his eyes. He had on a brown T-shirt and worn blue jeans, his hands resting on his knees. Something about the way he sat felt so familiar, a memory stirring from years ago. he looked up. A lazy smile spread across his face, and I saw the distinct glint in his eyes I hadn't seen since we were kids. It was Luke. My breath caught in my throat for a moment. It had been years since we'd last seen each other, and he had changed—the boyish grin replaced by a more rugged, mature expression.