No, sir. Not me.

My first memory is Sunday dinner at my granddaddy’s.

That house was a tool shed. My granddaddy and his daddy drug it out onto that piece of land when he come home from the war. The second one. He raised five kids in it on a mechanic’s wage. By then them five had kids of their own. Every one of us was there.

Greens. Cornbread. Chicken my grandmother wrung that morning.

My great-uncle JD was there. Named after the whiskey. Made a fair amount of it, too.

JD had bought himself a horse. Paid cash. Nobody asked where the cash come from.

We was late. The other cousins had already seen it. So JD snatched up my hand. Said, come see.

My granddaddy was a large-caliber man. His brother was bigger.

We got close, and something spooked it. It reared up, and next thing I know we’re flying.

I landed funny. When I come up, JD still had my hand. Squeezing. Hard enough to break my fingers.

You ever try to get loose from a grown man’s hand when you’re four? You plant your feet. You pull. You kick. You claw at the fingers.

You can’t move a one.

His hand kept tightening. I could feel my bones grinding together in it. Every time he shook, I shook.

I went to squalling and crying and begging, but he didn’t notice. So when I looked for what he was thinking, that’s when I saw his head was busted wide open, like cornbread that over-rose and squeezed out the skillet.

I let out a scream to wake the dead.

Not that JD noticed. He was too busy acting like a dead cockroach.

Emptied out every ounce I had. Lungs. Bladder. Snot. Tears. My mouth went dry, and I tasted blood. Kicking. Screaming. Pissing. Biting.

And he just shook me. Shook me and shook me. Till he shit himself.

Eventually my momma come a-running with Granddaddy. But it was too late. Doctor set what he could. These two never did come back right.

Some people say they know death. But every time I try to make a fist with this hand, I’m four years old, and JD’s still squeezing.

So no, sir. I won’t go near a horse.

’Cause the first thing I remember in this world, a horse brought ole Mister Death to Sunday dinner, and he held my hand while he called another man to silence.