I met him once
in fifth grade -
right there between spelling words
and a math test I hadn’t studied for.
He came clippity-clopping
out of a thin old book,
with a pumpkin grin
and a headless look,
and he galloped straight into my brain
and set up camp.
Elmira was small.
My world was smaller.
But Sleepy Hollow lived
right under my desk,
where fear and wonder
shook hands and whispered,
You’ll remember me.
I read it by flashlight.
I read it again in daylight.
I swore I heard hooves
in the hallway one night,
but it was probably just the house
settling into its own old bones.
Years ran off like startled horses.
Hair thinned.
Calendars thickened.
The boy grew up,
but the story never did.
Then one October -
a real one,
with leaves crunching like secrets -
I stood in Sleepy Hollow itself.
Not on a page.
Not in a desk.
But there.
And suddenly -
through lantern light and laughter -
he rode.
The Horseman.
Cloak flying.
Hooves striking sparks from the dark.
Weaving through the crowd
like he’d been late for 200 years
and finally found me.
And for one perfect moment,
I wasn’t grown at all.
I was a kid from Elmira
with a library book
and a racing heart,
watching fiction step off the page
and tip its hat.
Some stories don’t end.
They just wait -
patient as pumpkins -
until you’re old enough
to meet them again
and realize…
You never really left Sleepy Hollow.
GBS jr
2017
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