Ashes to Ashes
one/one
When I was ten I had my first run-in with death. I sat in the back seat of my mother's silver Oldsmobile as she drove us to the service. My worn out paddock boots felt tight around my feet and I fiddled with straying pieces of fleece from my red, horse-printed jacket. My mother--a chatterbox--knew enough to not talk to me today.
It had rained earlier that morning and by mid-afternoon it was frigid and overcast, though the ground still stayed muddy. I probably wore a hat upon my mother's request, but all I can remember is that red horse jacket.
I slid out of the car and onto the unpaved parking lot, looking out at the carnage. Where a barn once stood lay a charred, concrete skeleton of a building. I looked away and followed my mom closely, my vision blurred. She silently handed me a crumpled tissue from her pocket as we followed the crowd of mourners into a tiny clearing surrounded by the piney woods of New England. I shoved the unused tissue in my pocket.
A makeshift stage was set up from plywood, and bushels of flowers billowed all over the dead terrain. I was one of the youngest people there and had a hard time seeing everything from amidst the crowd, but sometimes someone would shift just right and I could catch a glimpse of the polished bridle bits that hung along the front of the stage. Above each one was a name tag. There were thirteen in total.
I would say the service was nice, but I cannot remember a word of it. Sincerest regards and quotes about how much horses have impacted our lives, most likely. All I recall is how I stared at the rocks wedged into the dirt, as I scuffed them with my boot, wedged betwixt somber, middle aged people. Occasionally I would glance up at the people next to me, in front of me, and around me and watch them. Watch their aged faces staring off into the distance, or watch as they slowly nodded along with the speaker, eyes puffy and bloodshot. Many cried while others comforted. The crowd was silent, besides the occasional sob or a blow of the nose.
My fingers were painfully raw from the cold, and tingling at the tips. I could not bring myself to cry because I had cried every night for the past two weeks since the day I found out the barn burned down.
We had to walk by that barn again as the crowd dispersed and slowly followed the owner who had asked us to join her in the grazing field where the horses once stood, lazy nibbling at the grass and lifting their heads slowly as a car rolled in. I managed to finally stare at the barn, or what was left of it at least: at the ash and remaining rubble. Most of it had already been removed, but the concrete foundation still sat in the ground, like a macabre maze with no foreseeable exit. I knew exactly which stall belonged to the horse that I rode; it was in the corner on the right, the one closest to the barn doors. She had been just a wooden panel away from living.
Everyone stood in the field silently. The owners of the horses held red balloons with the nametags of their horse tied to the end. I watched the owners of Callie clutching the balloon of their beloved family horse. I wanted to hold the balloon myself, to not let it go like I knew they would. I wanted to take it home with me and keep it until it deflated and then keep the limp rubber. They let them go. We stood in silence, heads cocked back at a neck-breaking angle, watching them float into the grey sky.
All I could do was stand there and feel out of place and angry; stand there and love horses so much that I hated them; hated them for living, for dying, for not having opposable thumbs to gets themselves out of a burning barn.
I wanted to scream so loud that the nearly invisible balloons burst, but I stayed still and silent. People started to leave. Some hung around and talked and reminisced. My mother, a poor soul dragged into my love of horses, stood by the car until I was ready. I stormed over to the barn and stood on the concrete frame of Callie’s stall. I wasn't ready. I stood there and finally let the tears fall as I stared into her stall and imagined what it must feel like to burn alive. My tears stung my frozen cheeks and dripped down onto my red horse jacket. I closed my eyes and inhaled slowly, a light, smoky smell filling up my lungs as I recalled the last time I was here; for my first horse show where I won a blue ribbon.
I breathed out and watched the cloud of white before kneeling down, wiping away my tears. My fingers dug through the charred rubble of Callie’s stall and picked out a small nugget of coal. I quickly shoved it in my pocket, mumbled my goodbyes under my breath as I joined my mother at the car. We got in and drove slowly down the gravel road to leave.
I didn’t look back.
It had rained earlier that morning and by mid-afternoon it was frigid and overcast, though the ground still stayed muddy. I probably wore a hat upon my mother's request, but all I can remember is that red horse jacket.
I slid out of the car and onto the unpaved parking lot, looking out at the carnage. Where a barn once stood lay a charred, concrete skeleton of a building. I looked away and followed my mom closely, my vision blurred. She silently handed me a crumpled tissue from her pocket as we followed the crowd of mourners into a tiny clearing surrounded by the piney woods of New England. I shoved the unused tissue in my pocket.
A makeshift stage was set up from plywood, and bushels of flowers billowed all over the dead terrain. I was one of the youngest people there and had a hard time seeing everything from amidst the crowd, but sometimes someone would shift just right and I could catch a glimpse of the polished bridle bits that hung along the front of the stage. Above each one was a name tag. There were thirteen in total.
I would say the service was nice, but I cannot remember a word of it. Sincerest regards and quotes about how much horses have impacted our lives, most likely. All I recall is how I stared at the rocks wedged into the dirt, as I scuffed them with my boot, wedged betwixt somber, middle aged people. Occasionally I would glance up at the people next to me, in front of me, and around me and watch them. Watch their aged faces staring off into the distance, or watch as they slowly nodded along with the speaker, eyes puffy and bloodshot. Many cried while others comforted. The crowd was silent, besides the occasional sob or a blow of the nose.
My fingers were painfully raw from the cold, and tingling at the tips. I could not bring myself to cry because I had cried every night for the past two weeks since the day I found out the barn burned down.
We had to walk by that barn again as the crowd dispersed and slowly followed the owner who had asked us to join her in the grazing field where the horses once stood, lazy nibbling at the grass and lifting their heads slowly as a car rolled in. I managed to finally stare at the barn, or what was left of it at least: at the ash and remaining rubble. Most of it had already been removed, but the concrete foundation still sat in the ground, like a macabre maze with no foreseeable exit. I knew exactly which stall belonged to the horse that I rode; it was in the corner on the right, the one closest to the barn doors. She had been just a wooden panel away from living.
Everyone stood in the field silently. The owners of the horses held red balloons with the nametags of their horse tied to the end. I watched the owners of Callie clutching the balloon of their beloved family horse. I wanted to hold the balloon myself, to not let it go like I knew they would. I wanted to take it home with me and keep it until it deflated and then keep the limp rubber. They let them go. We stood in silence, heads cocked back at a neck-breaking angle, watching them float into the grey sky.
All I could do was stand there and feel out of place and angry; stand there and love horses so much that I hated them; hated them for living, for dying, for not having opposable thumbs to gets themselves out of a burning barn.
I wanted to scream so loud that the nearly invisible balloons burst, but I stayed still and silent. People started to leave. Some hung around and talked and reminisced. My mother, a poor soul dragged into my love of horses, stood by the car until I was ready. I stormed over to the barn and stood on the concrete frame of Callie’s stall. I wasn't ready. I stood there and finally let the tears fall as I stared into her stall and imagined what it must feel like to burn alive. My tears stung my frozen cheeks and dripped down onto my red horse jacket. I closed my eyes and inhaled slowly, a light, smoky smell filling up my lungs as I recalled the last time I was here; for my first horse show where I won a blue ribbon.
I breathed out and watched the cloud of white before kneeling down, wiping away my tears. My fingers dug through the charred rubble of Callie’s stall and picked out a small nugget of coal. I quickly shoved it in my pocket, mumbled my goodbyes under my breath as I joined my mother at the car. We got in and drove slowly down the gravel road to leave.
I didn’t look back.