He only let me drive the threshing sledge for three minutes, and on the condition that I did it slowly. After I got off, my uncle would take my place and turn it around again, as if on a never ending merry-go-round. The dull cadence of the two mules would give way to a lively trot that would eventually erupt into a spirited gallop. Then my uncle would become the roundup rider in an old Western, corralling amber waves of wheat and straw. Meanwhile, I waited on the shore of that golden sea for my turn to become an adult.
Miguel Ángel Calvo worked for an insurance company for nearly three decades. He is a retiree who dedicates part of his time to writing.