All The Pretty Little Horses

I miss you.  Your memory clings to me.



The last time I saw you ride, Cacia was three weeks old.  I held her as you mounted your stallion, dark flesh rippling.  You were with God, your face lifted towards the light, changed, like a child again.

We used to ride together under the power lines, under the smell of sun.  I remember the cricket song and the hum of electricity overhead; The feeling of my adolescent thighs naked against my gelding's brawn.  We'd return with our legs bleeding from tack and thistle, faces thick with sisterhood and joy.

We were together.
I have you marked on my body.  You are a part of me.
Do you remember?  Do you remember, forever?  We'll always have each other.  Forever.



I remember the lightning and wind.  We'd stand near the windows, watching together.  Mom would come up and we'd stand, the three of us (always the three of us) as the house would crack and tremble.  We'd laugh.  It was exciting.

We'd watch the waves on the coast during a storm.  Often we'd find beaches that were just ours.  Ours.  Just ours.  It would pour down rain in heavy drops and our hair would drip white into our eyes.  We'd slap our foreheads with sandy palms, shiver and giggle, and we'd dance and scream.  We'd build sandcastles that were made from seaweed, broken bits of glass, and pieces of wood that mom would find.  "Look at this wood Rita.  Look.  Do you see the shape?  Look at this beautiful shape Simone, did you see this?"


We'd take your dog and leave dad behind.  You and I would run up the rocks and yell down to each other, "Come up here, you've got to see this," and we did.  We'd poke into the tide pools and pull out star fish.  You'd wag them over my head and I'd scream.  You loved that, to see me scream and pull away and laugh and call mom over.  You adored me.  did you adore me?

We'd swim too.  Mom would stand back on the sand, with her long fingers pulled against her eyes to shade from the light, and she'd go looking for rocks to show us when we got out.  You'd challenge me into the smaller surf, and we'd run back and forth until we'd lost our way and our fear of being cold.  Soon, we'd be under the crashing waves, beat against the sand and tumbled to shore.  I remember walking out of the water in my overalls, covered and heavy with sand and salt, laughing as I emptied pockets of water.  We'd come back to mom breathless with teeth chattering, talking over one another, exploding into giggles, gasping and laughing and she'd smile at us not understanding a word we said, but understanding the moment of forever.

I remember you in the ocean and I remember you in horses.  I remember you when I see sisters and I miss you.  It wasn't always the way it is now.  We used to have each other.  Forever we used to say.  We can always count on each other.  We'll never be alone.  Do you promise?  Will you be there?  I promise, forever.

We always knew that the world couldn't be trusted.  We lived on a hill in the middle of oak and thistle, and we'd go across seas and meet children to play with, but we were different than everyone.  Special and different, but we had each other.

Now I am alone.  You were a part of me.  You're too broken now.  You've become a dream and a ghost and I can't recognize the shell you walk in.   Where is my sister?  I miss your imperfect self.  We were both fractured but it didn't matter.
The end is fuzzy.  I was drunk on grief.  I was drunk.  It was hard and I was so angry at you, I couldn't understand why we weren't good enough for you to want to stay sane.  Where have you gone?  Are you alone right now, or have you taken someone to bed, or are you hunting the streets trying to fill your hunger?