… almost eleven years …

Yesterday evening, while making my usual rounds feeding the animals, I was on my second trip to the horse pasture when one of those grief waves came over me. You know the kind that folks say ‘come in waves’ after you think you are ok. I have them occasionally - mostly when I hear a certain song, or a familiar scent blows by in a breeze, or I catch a glimpse of a man with his style - a fedora and printed button-down shirt…

I had just thrown down hay for Rose and Buddy, and Rose stood there in the field looking at me, backlit in red and orange and gold. I walked over and wrapped my arms around her thick neck. She’s a big baby - sometimes dramatic, sometimes super calm. But yesterday she rested her head on my shoulder and didn’t move. I could feel her warmth. Hear her breath. And suddenly I was crying - really bawling - and talking to her through all of it.

“I can’t believe it’s been almost eleven years.”

I thought about how much my dad loved her. I thought about the scared girl I was when I was suddenly forced into being her caretaker after he died. The things I learned about my dad after he died - things I’d try with her and things she already knew - things he did with her. And in that moment, maybe for the first time, I felt something so deep. I felt sad that she didn’t understand why he never came back. Sad that I was so afraid of her then that I couldn’t soothe her confusion or her grief. Sad that she had to endure so much confusing change without a person who knew how to help her through it. But also knowing I did the best I could with what I had.

And then, when she finally found her best friend, Hazel, she had to endure another loss when Hazel died. I mean, she loves Buddy, but Rose was inseparable from Hazel, and that loss hit everyone here hard.  

I wondered if she thinks of my dad. If she remembers him sweet-talking her, brushing her mane, the sound of his voice…

I let all of it come - the tears, the remembering, the ache.

And Rose just stood there, her big beautiful head resting on my shoulder, breathing with me, almost like we were both having the same moment.

For the most part, life on this farm is joyful these days - dogs underfoot or claiming hammocks, projects in progress, laughter and movement and reflection and growth. Sometimes I feel like it’s too good to be true. But every once in a while, a memory slips in quietly and reminds me that I’m still human, capable of ugly-crying into a horse’s fluffy winter coat, and that’s ok... 

x

-s