She tried to remember him but she could only remember the horses.They used to ride together, she and Grandpa Joe. They shared a love for many things, but their love of horses was perhaps their most treasured and celebrated connection. They spent many a day going to the stables - riding, feeding, grooming…living horses.
When she was six, they won their first red ribbon in a show competition. In honor of their accomplishment, he took her to the ice cream parlor for their favorite: “mint chocolate chip…one scoop…in a sugar cone“. Speckled green scoop in hand, she sat down at the lone, wrought iron table, upon which he’d placed a small square package holding a beautifully hand-written slip of paper within its bows.
“Karen Marie“, it read.
His penmanship was font-worthy. Such attention was paid to each stroke so that every rounded letter ‘a’, every perfectly proportioned letter ‘s’ appeared exactly as the others. Of course she noticed this…it was just one more illustration of his perfection.
After savoring the note, she ripped open the package with one hand, frantically licking the cone’s rim to avoid dripping onto her precious gift. Looking up at her were two Palomino horses - one slightly bigger than the other. Their eyes peeked over the stable doors, heads cocked to opposite sides and resting against each other. They were together and they were happy, just like her and Grandpa Joe.
Over a year had passed and the horses, now accustomed to their place on her wall, stood panning the room…unsympathetic. Once upon a time, they nuzzled her to sleep…their warm, white-tipped noses gently stroking her hair. Now the horses were cold. They leered at her, mocked her. Every night she’d bury herself under the sheets and weep. They stared while the stinging tears darted down her face. Try as she might to hate them, they refused to allow it. She turned them toward the wall to divert their glares (she knew they were still looking), but somehow she needed them. The horses caused her so much pain, but she loved them.
It was clear that she was hurting something awful. She was (exponentially with each passing day) losing her innocence…the joie de vivre that had once ruled her. The people around her whipped out their best clichés in the hopes of soothing her.
“He’s in a better place”, they assured her, as if that made things any better.
“It was his time to go”, they philosophized, as if she understood.
“He’ll watch over you”, they said, as if to comfort her. These words made little sense to her even though she’d heard them a thousand times for months. But something snapped in her one night as if she was hearing the words for the first time. The horses! She shot up out of bed, flicked on her light and jerked the painting off the wall with one quick swipe. She gazed into the horses’ eyes - big and brown like hers and his.
“He loves you”, they said. A faint smile crept over her face for the first time since that Tuesday in October. “The horses” she realized, “were trying to help me see him”. In an instant, she saw his eyes in the painting of the horses. Her anger had consumed her - so much so that she did not notice that he had been right there with her all along. But now…they were together and she was happy.
**********
Again, I didn't want to prejudice your feelings about the piece so I'm posting this as an after-thought.
This is my first story since I believe elementary school. I've always been a good technical writer, but I'm too much of a perfectionist to tackel creative writing (I think I'd start over 50 million times or edit so much that I lose everything). It definitely seems easier for me to write what I know, so this was a great starting point for me and it actually helped me tap into some memories I didn't even remember (apparently I suffered from PTSD after my grandfather's death).
I wasn't sure if I should include this as NF or Flash. It's NF as far as I can tell, but I had absolutely no memories of the 6 months after my grandfather's death until a couple weeks ago (thank goodness for therapy!) and I started remembering even more as I wrote. So it could be less true than I'm thinking for all I really know. So whatever the powers-that-be think is fine by me.
Whatever, I hope you enjoy. It was very therapeutic!
one can wish, no?
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