Farms & Fires.

               

Today I sat outside his field towing his lead and relishing in the now.
I memorized every mark, I took pictures in my head and my heart of that big ‘ole scar on his right hindquarters.
I memorized all those dapple markings on his legs, his “grease marks” on the inside of his belly.

I took deep breaths while he pulled away farther from me stretching to reach the greener grass. I called him over and held his head against my forehead and could no longer hold back the tears. 

I let them come. 

Hesitantly at first. 

Then with ease.

                                              

I closed my eyes memorizing his smell. I kissed his forehead. I played back ten years worth of memories. 

The lessons. 

The words. 

The hours of training and frustrations. 

I remembered all the times his stall was my safe place and grooming him in the aisle of the barn was my escape, my sanctuary away from the dark world of others, even of myself. 

I recalled all the times I laughed and cried and yelled in his presence. Sometimes ashamedly at him. Others because of her disease, their terrible words, his constant leaving.

               

In the same day I sang songs from the radio at the top of my lungs, soaring down the highway with three women I’ve grown so close to accompanying me; the epitome of the college cliche. We exited the highway and veered onto the back road of a little farm town and turned sharply into the gravel driveway. 

               

Rural Pennsylvania Friday night meant the bonfire had already started, but we hadn’t missed much. Three hours later and the worship rolled on. The guitar strummed in the background and the blur of sparks and conversation became a faint hush to my ears. The fire popped and whistled. People I had known for four years and a few I had just met laughed, shared testimonies, stories and joked.

It’s a strange thing, 

this closure phase.