dame, you? Just like your partner here. Gumming up our boiled apples until we return to fertilize a new crop.”
Then something happened to me: a revelation of sorts, or, more accurately, a massive realignment of the world as I knew it, occurring in just an instant. It had only happened a few times before. One of them being when my father opened that package from my mother, the one with her picture, and I suddenly knew, even at that young age, that she wasn’t ever coming home. The other being when my father died and I stood looking at him in his casket. There have been very few moments as momentous as these in my life, but this was one of those times.
I was standing there with that paper towel and those apples in my hand, watching Mr. Hadley feed them to Rosie, and I suddenly knew this was the yearling filly that June had laid his hand on in his story, and I knew this was probably that same barn too, maybe even the same stall. Now here they were, all these years later, the old man and the old horse. It was the first moment I truly grasped that time will catch up to each of us, as it must with all things, and I wondered where I would be standing thirty years on, what I would be doing.
I stood in the trance of this epiphany, this revelation swirling around me with the stirred-up dust, and when I came to my senses, the old man had his hand on Rosie’s head and they were both watching me, although she could not see.
“Here, you feed her one,” he said, nodding toward Rosie.
I stepped closer and squatted to feed an apple slice to the old mare. She slurped it up, then licked me as if to get familiar with this new hand delivering her treat. Then she sighed a heavy, hollow-sounding sigh, and I could see her ribs in the low light, beneath the slick black coat.
“This is the same horse that June was caring for, isn’t it?” I asked. “All those years ago. The filly in the stables.”
“Yes,” he said, nodding. “She was just a yearling then.”
I was suddenly curious about June again—maybe because I was getting impatient; maybe because that call I’d answered about the cemetery was still on my mind—and I turned to Mr. Hadley and said, “Is your wife . . .” I almost said dead , but I caught myself and changed it at the last second: “I mean, is she still around?”
The old man closed his eyes for a moment, sighing, not unlike the horse. “Sometimes I think so,” he finally said. Then, as if suddenly very tired from standing, he stepped over and reached outside the stall for his cane and used it to lower himself onto a bale of hay in the corner. He looked as though he wanted to speak, so I sat on the hay next to him. It was quiet for a minute. Dust swirled in the dim light. The horse let out another heavy sigh.
“She really was something,” he said. “My June was. I wish you could have met her.” He had his hands folded over the cane where it stood in front of him, his moist eyes turned up to the skylight. “I wish everyone could have met her. She had a contagious optimism.”
“What happened after your conversation with her here in the stables?”
“Is that where I left off telling the story?” he asked, glancing over at me.
“Actually you had just started to tell me about a busload ofhippies with an injured ostrich. But mostly I was curious about you and June.”
He laughed. “I’m not surprised. Even hippies with an ostrich are hard-pressed to compete for attention when it comes to June. Everyone who ever spent five minutes in her presence was ready to follow her to the end of the Earth. Or, I should say, off the edge of a cliff, as was the case with me that night those hippies arrived . . .”
10
S UNDAY WAS WILD-CARD day at stunt camp and the students had voted to do high jumps. A young woman they called Hollywood Heidi was up on the scissor lift and saw it first. She pointed and said, “There’s a pink bus tearing up this way.”
They all turned to watch as the bus barreled
Then something happened to me: a revelation of sorts, or, more accurately, a massive realignment of the world as I knew it, occurring in just an instant. It had only happened a few times before. One of them being when my father opened that package from my mother, the one with her picture, and I suddenly knew, even at that young age, that she wasn’t ever coming home. The other being when my father died and I stood looking at him in his casket. There have been very few moments as momentous as these in my life, but this was one of those times.
I was standing there with that paper towel and those apples in my hand, watching Mr. Hadley feed them to Rosie, and I suddenly knew this was the yearling filly that June had laid his hand on in his story, and I knew this was probably that same barn too, maybe even the same stall. Now here they were, all these years later, the old man and the old horse. It was the first moment I truly grasped that time will catch up to each of us, as it must with all things, and I wondered where I would be standing thirty years on, what I would be doing.
I stood in the trance of this epiphany, this revelation swirling around me with the stirred-up dust, and when I came to my senses, the old man had his hand on Rosie’s head and they were both watching me, although she could not see.
“Here, you feed her one,” he said, nodding toward Rosie.
I stepped closer and squatted to feed an apple slice to the old mare. She slurped it up, then licked me as if to get familiar with this new hand delivering her treat. Then she sighed a heavy, hollow-sounding sigh, and I could see her ribs in the low light, beneath the slick black coat.
“This is the same horse that June was caring for, isn’t it?” I asked. “All those years ago. The filly in the stables.”
“Yes,” he said, nodding. “She was just a yearling then.”
I was suddenly curious about June again—maybe because I was getting impatient; maybe because that call I’d answered about the cemetery was still on my mind—and I turned to Mr. Hadley and said, “Is your wife . . .” I almost said dead , but I caught myself and changed it at the last second: “I mean, is she still around?”
The old man closed his eyes for a moment, sighing, not unlike the horse. “Sometimes I think so,” he finally said. Then, as if suddenly very tired from standing, he stepped over and reached outside the stall for his cane and used it to lower himself onto a bale of hay in the corner. He looked as though he wanted to speak, so I sat on the hay next to him. It was quiet for a minute. Dust swirled in the dim light. The horse let out another heavy sigh.
“She really was something,” he said. “My June was. I wish you could have met her.” He had his hands folded over the cane where it stood in front of him, his moist eyes turned up to the skylight. “I wish everyone could have met her. She had a contagious optimism.”
“What happened after your conversation with her here in the stables?”
“Is that where I left off telling the story?” he asked, glancing over at me.
“Actually you had just started to tell me about a busload ofhippies with an injured ostrich. But mostly I was curious about you and June.”
He laughed. “I’m not surprised. Even hippies with an ostrich are hard-pressed to compete for attention when it comes to June. Everyone who ever spent five minutes in her presence was ready to follow her to the end of the Earth. Or, I should say, off the edge of a cliff, as was the case with me that night those hippies arrived . . .”
10
S UNDAY WAS WILD-CARD day at stunt camp and the students had voted to do high jumps. A young woman they called Hollywood Heidi was up on the scissor lift and saw it first. She pointed and said, “There’s a pink bus tearing up this way.”
They all turned to watch as the bus barreled
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