by Lynne Hugo
They’d all changed sometime during the past months; I was the one who hadn’t. Or maybe some different part of them had come forward.
A few days after the funeral, Eddie sold the truck that was like his baby. He bought a used Ford Taurus. A week after the funeral, Cal headed for Florida, he said. Eddie denies it, but I’m sure there’s a connection between the two. It’s best that Cal’s left again, but I don’t hate him the way I used to. My father says he might not have been any good at cleaning the house, but he cleaned Mama when she soiled herself and didn’t make her feel bad about it.
There’s more to people than history. There’s more than they wear on their faces. Not everyone, most likely, but most.
And now we live on, surprised by unlikely success. I mentioned this to my father recently when I was over there to ride, and he replied, “A blind horse don’t have to step in every hole, y’know. I sure did at the end with your mother, though. Feel so bad about that. I’m sorry.” That’s the only time he’s made a sideways reference to what she told me in her letter, which he doesn’t know about. I hadn’t seen a point in reading it to him. I’ve had enough of recriminations; my own guilt keeps me honest, though accepting it means a sadness and regret that never leaves. When you learn there are mistakes that cannot be fixed and you have made them, well, it does change you.
“And I’m sorry I didn’t come see Mama and you,” I said, without asking him what he meant. “As you say, lotsa ways to be blind. I’ve got mine, too. So let it go, okay?” It’s taken us this long to speak of it even indirectly. If it weighs on him as it does on me, it’s heavy.
The sweet explosion of grass, the soft air of April. Two pastures alive with scent, movement, birdsong.
The tall, long-legged new Thoroughbred filly, a bright auburn bay, kept her distance until the herd accepted her. Now when she romped, testing the limits, they disciplined her only lightly, even Charyzma. When The Girl, who spent every daylight with them all, first put a blanket on her back, then a saddle, the filly whinnied and Charyzma and Moonbeam nickered to her, It’s all right. Red and Spice stayed close to the corral with the other two while The Girl crooned and soothed, like Her. The Old Man spent hours with Moonbeam and was often on her back.
Spice heard the noise coming off the road most days now, not like when She didn’t come. He carried Her often into the woods where She told him of the wildflowers they passed: violet, bloodroot, trillium, Dutchman’s-breeches, blue-eyed Mary, the difference between the five petals of false rue anemone and the six, seven, eight, or nine petals of true rue. One trail ran between the clear wide creek and an uphill slope where a rare patch of true rue was thick as armfuls of tiny fallen stars rising off the earth again. During the time those blooms shone, She guided Spice there daily, where they’d stop a while before her heels signaled him lightly, walk on. On the loop back home, scattered dogwood had their blossoms turned palms up to the sun. Walk on.
Table of Contents
cover
praise_for
copyright
title_page
also_by_Lynne_Hugo
contents
dedication
acknowledgments
chapter_1
chapter_2
chapter_3
chapter_4
chapter_5
chapter_6
chapter_7
chapter_8
chapter_9
chapter_10
