...and the wind caught the bottom of her sundress as she did, lifting it up, letting it flutter around her legs like flapping wings. The breeze that brushed against her bare legs tickled and Hannah giggled and squirmed. She gripped tightly to the second board of the tall wooden fence and peered out onto the meadow.
Near to her, the twin ponies continued to play. Hannah watched them chase each other, running and bucking and whinnying in delight. Around and around they would jog and run, in perfect unison. When one was done chasing, the other instinctively knew when to take over the pursuit.
They were in-sync even in their mischief.
Her Pa would often say that they were born in mischief and would die chasing each other, as twins always did. They would know very little outside of each other, he also stated. Hannah didn't know what that meant, but it sort of saddened her, for some reason. They would know so much more than that, she was sure.
Pa often said things that Hannah did not fully understand. It was mostly in times when he would mumble incoherently to himself. His face would grow stern and his eyes would become far away. He would often look through her, as if seeing something she could not see, something far beyond her view.
She pictured her Pa and heard his rough voice. Whenever he smiled, at least the crooked half-smirk that would rarely embrace his lips, it was a beautiful thing. He knew more about...everything than she did, she concluded. Maybe that was why he rarely smiled. Would she lose her smile when she grew up? Whatever her Pa saw when he looked out far, she never wanted to see. That would be a tragic day.
Hannah took a gander back to the twins. She did not see mischief, only playfulness.
Hannah always enjoyed watching the twins romping about in the morning hours, especially when the sky was blue and sun was bright. The sun always reflected across their thick brown coats, giving a shine, almost illuminating them with light. It made the animals appear powerful, filled with sunshine and joy. They reminded her of what she was told angels looked like, being of God and the sun, full of bright and joy and love.
Suddenly, Hannah dropped from the wooden fence to the grass below. Mimicing the ponies, she began to chase her own shadow around and around in circles, giggling and laughing as she did. Her short, young legs moved swiftly. She pretended to absorb the sunshine, getting faster and faster as she filled with light.
When she played Hannah was free, as she knew the ponies were. She wished against age and time that she could play on the farm forever and ever, always in her sundress, always in the sunshine, and always with the horses.
But that could never be. Her Pa grew up and she had to too. She would eventually get old, as her Pa had gotten old. And maybe even lose her smile.
She paused for a brief and unexpected moment. A longing filled her and she turned toward her house, the beaten two story structure in the near distance. It stood tall and large against the blue sky, like her Pa often loomed over her, stern but caring. It was the only home that she had ever known and it made her feel secure, far from any dangers that may harm her.
She was momentarily taken back by the unwanted disturbance. She had not been playing for long, but it felt like she hadn't seen her home in a very long time.
The emotions were weird and uncomfortable, but luckily faded. She broke into a spin, letting more air lift the bottom of her sundress. Again and again she spun letting her wings flap up and down.
Heavy stomping hooves caught her attention and she returned to the wooden fence. As she peaked through, she winessed the twins being pursued by a third horse. Lela, their magnificent mother, were rounding up her boys, ending their games. Lela gathered her children and escorted them, against all reluctance, toward the barn. Pa must have filled their stalls with food.
If not for their mother, the twins might never stop playing long enough to eat. Hannah was similar. If not for her Pa and his calls to breakfast, lunch, and supper, she would surely starve to death.
Turning, Hannah ended her own games and...
...before she did, Lela stood with her body halfway out the back door and watched the boys in the yard. Dinner was ready and she wanted to call them in again, but was suddenly mesmerized by their mischeif. It was the first time all day that she found a moment to breathe, in and out. There was just something about her twin sons and the way they were able to close out the outside world and simply enjoy each other unconditionally. Nothing else existed.
It was soothing, calming.
Mimi always loved to sit and watch them carry on, Lela fondly remembered.
“Okay, boys!” Lela called, surprised how easily she got their attention that time. “It is time to get your behinds in here and at the table! Dinner will be up shortly!”
Their eyes brightened and they howled, “Turkey!” Bushy, messy brown hair began to bounce all around as the twin toddlers jolted for the back door. As their short arms and legs began to flail as they ran, their faces never lost the playful intensity.
Spliting up, they went around here and through the door.
Turning about, Lela headed back inside the house. After the stampede of the twins subsided, sounds of football on low volume immediately filled her ears. She could slightly make out the announcers and whistles of the referees as she entered the low lit living room. It was a drastic change from last Thanksgiving when she could barely hear her own thoughts over John Madden's staggered voice.
The dim light barley revealed several figures slumped along and across her couch and loveseat. If her cousin had not looked up at her, she would have thought that she had found a crime scene filled with dead bodies.
There were no bodies but the weight of death was effecting them all, Lela realized. She thought about saying something to them, but simply stood for a minute and took in the room. Everything that needed to be said had already been spoken.
“Who is winning?” The question didn't even recieve a mumble. “Who is playing?” Silence.
It was the beginning of a new tradition, one that was forced upon them only several weeks ago. Even the most solid tradtions would eventually have to alter or cease. Her family still had not fully decoded the recent changes and was reluctantly excepting the new reality of a different type of Thanksgiving. Things would forever be changed. Yet, Lela still had faith and hope for the new traditions.
And she was in charge of the new tradition. Taking pride in setting the new tones, Lela rushed from the kitchen and headed into a hallway toward the kitchen. On her way out of the living room, she left the words, “Dinner will be served in a few mintutes.”
Charging down the long hallway, Lela passed briefly by an open doorway. Through the doorway was a dinning room with a long wooden table. Sitting along the table in sporadic clusters were other members of her family, grouped together in small to medium converstations.
Breezing by, Lela hurried in through another doorway and into the kitchen. Two odors at once slapped her in the face. Turkey and chocolate. It was an odd combination but for some reason made her mouth instantly salavate.
The short figure of her nephew Donald startled her a little. “I'm hungry,” he complained, holding his stomach for emphasis.
“I'm going to bring in the food in just a second, sweety,” Lela replied, shooing him from the kitchen.
Following her nose to the oven, she tossed on an oven mitt and snatched a large bakery pan from the oven. The aroma of chocolate increased immensely. Swiftly, before the heat made its way through the mitt, she placed the desert next to the juicy turkey on a nearby counter.
The desert was a dark chocolate cake with peanut butter fudge swirled across and throughout. She took pride in her accomplishment. She never considered herself much of a bakery chef, but it looked utterly delicious. And she hoped that Mimi would have agreed.
Her Mimi could make a pie or a cake or a cookie that would melt in the mouth and cover tastbuds with pure unadulturated g
oodness. It was talent. It was an artform. But no matter how talented, everyone, even her Mimi, had to start from scracth, so to say. And this was Lela's start, her scratchy beginnings.
If Lela kept baking, Mimi would be proud of her one day, she was sure of it.
Keeping on her oven mitts, Lela grabbed the turkey pan. The bird dripped with flavored persperation and Lela knew that her family would enjoy sinking their teeth into it.
Everything seemed to be coming along nicely. Maybe Mimi was here with them, if only in spirit. If not, Lela tried to imagine where she would be. Where would Mimi want to spend her eternity?
Using her back, Lela pushed through the swinging door that connected the kitchen to the dinning room. Upon entering...
...the large red barn. It took several seconds for the darkness to clear and reveal the nearby rows of horse stalls. They were wide and wooden and open in the back for the horse to go to and from the fenced meadow. They could run and play whenever they wanted to. The horses were not prisoneers or pets, Hannah appreciated, but family, and were treated as much like it as possible.
Aroma of hay and manure floated across the bottom of her nose. Even at her age, Hannah understood that they were the smells that would always bring her back home. No matter how far she might travel in her life, one sniff and she would be on the farm with the horses.
That was if she ever left the farm.
A part of her knew that one day she would most likely go out into the world beyond the borders of the farm. She would be born into it. Eventually. But how madly she would miss the horses. Being away from them might be the death of her. That wasn't entirely true, becasue the horses would always be with her.
Through the smells of them.
Through the memories of them.
Hannah would never fully leave the horses.
Not completely.
A crunching, gnawing sound caught her attention. Smiling and giggling, Hannah did a qucik spin, letting the bottom of her sundress dance. Taking a jump and skip, she made her way over to the first stall. Within the horse stall was a black stallion, tall but thinner than would be expected of the breed.
Owen.
He had his nose in the feeding trough. Slowly, the horse raised his face out of the food and glanced at Hannah's tiny body. Taking large, rapid breathes in and out of his nostrils, Own nodded his head a couple times before coming to the stall's gate. Putting his nose to the opening between the boards, he smelled Hannah.
Slipping her hand through the gate, Hannah began to rub Owen's nose. The hair felt dry and coarse, but she didn't care. She didn't care at all. She loved to pet the skinny, black stallion. It was because Owen was her favorite out of all the horses. Maybe because he was the underdog of the farm. Maybe it was that he was adopted from another farm. Maybe, in spite of his appearance, she saw the beauty within the dark furred creature.
Owen was not born or brought up on their farm, which was important to her Pa, for some reason. Pa called the horse lazy and worthless. Yet, he fed Owen and gave him a home, which was more for Hanah's sake than the sake of the animal.
Kissing the tips of her fingers. Hannah patted them upon the horse, reminding him of her love. As if he would ever forget. Just like she would never forget him.
Other stalls waited down the row. Hannah gave Owen one last pat before...
...turning his eyes away from the food on his plate. Taking his black pen, Owen etched another couple of words upon the beaten white napkin. Each word was a groove within the thin paper, some almost ripping through to the other side. It almost felt like irony, the words his Mimi loved so much was being ripped through to the other side. Just like her. No...irony wasn't the word that he wanted.
Conversations went on around him, but he let them circle him, keeping himself to the outside. Letting his imagination wander through a sunny meadow, Owen took his bony dark fingers and scribbled a few more words, completing the first stanza to a new poem. As he jotted, he thought of his great-grandmother and how often she would speak of horses. She told him stories about playing with them around her childhood farm.
...and you found me in the field,
lost in the rain, a flawed stallion.
You fed me and brushed me and broke me of the wild;
with love and a stern switch, you broke me of the wild...
Laying the pen down across the napkin, Owen sighed. He was so lost in thought, in his own head, where he often lived, that he didn't hear the voice speak his name.
The voice repeated. “O?” For a moment he heard Mimi, calling him by her own special nickname. It was a simple bond they shared. Simple yet strong. But when the voice spoke again, “O?” he immediately recognized the tones of his aunt Lela.
She had never used that name before.
From behin him, Owen noticed her presence but did not turn around to greet her. At his back, his aunt did something else that surprised him to the core. She took her fingers and slowly patted him on his dry, coarse hair. Briefly, she ran her fingers across the top of his rough hair. Another act that only Mimi ever did.
“Aren't you hungry, sweetheart? The turkey is amazingly juicy.”
Glancing at his plate, Owen realized that he hadn't taken a single bite of his turkey or his mashed potatoes. The biscuits were smothered in dripping, ingored butter, which was dribbling loosely on the second small plate they sat upon.
“Not really,” he replied, keeping his head lowered. He thought about picking up his fork and poking the meat, but refrained.
“I am so glad that you could could make it,” Lela said. “It has been a while since I saw you...since anyone has seen you. College must be keeping you busy. It seems like you ran away as soon as you could. I don't blame you.” She seemed to lightly choke on the words.
He didn't reply.
“How are classes going?”
“All right,” he replied. “A lot of reading.”
“That is right up your alley, then,” Lela said.
“I guess.”
“You writing something?” Lela lowered herself closer to the table, trying to read her nephew's scribble. Normally he would fight the urge to hide his poetry, to grab the paper and crumple it into his pocket. But for some reason, he was happy to let his aunt read it.
“Just a little thing,” he replied, still not meeting her eyes.
“Mimi always loved your writing,” Lela said. “She always said that your words brought her home. I'm not sure what that exactly meant, only that she loved to read whatever you write. And now I can see why. She was your biggest fan, you know.”
Owen smirked. He was never close to his aunt, but for some reason at that second he regretted it. And he never regretted avoiding anyone else in his family. The only family he ever needed was Mimi.
“I would love to read some of your other stuff,” Lela insisted. “I want to be one of your fans, too. If you would let me.”
He considered it.
Lela reach down and took his hand. The contrast of dark to light was obvious. And no mater how hard Owen tried to ignore the contradiction between himself and the rest of the family, he never fully could. Except with Mimi, because she never made him feel different, darker than anyone else. His words may bring her home, but she was his home.
Where would his home be from then on?
“I don't know where Mimi is right now, but...”
Owen quickly interupted, “She is on the farm...with the horses.”
“I was going to say,” Lela began, “that she was perched on your shoulder, but I think you are right. Where else would she be?”
Owen closed his hand tigher around Lela's and...
...stretched her short arms out, as if only she could extend them a little further, she could run her fingers across both rows of horse stalls.
All the horses had come in from the
meadow, in to eat their grain and hay. Pa had laid out their food and they all had rushed in to recieve the givings with thanks.
They were all gathered under the same roof.
And Hannah was thankful for them.
And no matter how gruff her Pa could be at times, she knew that he was thankful for the horses as well. They were his world as much as her own. Pa had to be stern and strict. It was his job to this way. But he was kind and giving as well. He was both. Her Pa was complicated.
Arms out wide, Hannah walked slowly between the stalls, swinging her head back forth, taking in the sight of each horse. They were all unique. Large and small. Thick and thin. Pale or dark. They were all special. They were all her family.
As she reached the other side of the barn and found another large open doorway, Hannah stopped and turned around and took a final breath of hay and manure. She was almost saddened to let it go, but exhaled anyway.
Suddenly a booming voice called from the direction of the house, booming across the farm and into the barn, like the thunder that would sometimes roll across the meadow during a storm. It was her Pa. The voice was strong and the call was urgent. Hannah had no choice but to obey.
Sprinting out of the barn, she was forced to pause. Movements caught her attention. From their own doorways, marched each and every horse that had been previously in the barn, eating. Tall and proud, the animals began to line up along the fence, facing forward toward Hannah. Staring at her were the creatures that she had loved her entire life, looking at her as if saying goodbye.
Blowing them a sweet kiss across the air, Hannah knew that she would see them all again shortly. She just had to go home and see her Pa. He was calling for her.
Turning away, Hannah ran and ran, quickly getting to the front door of her home. The white door was closed. Turning the knob, she opened the door. Giving the horses a glance, Hannah went home...
...as Lela struck her glass with her fork, ashamed that she had to get everyone's attention that way. But she had nearly forgotten the most important tradition of thanksgiving. She would still do it, even if it was nearing the end of the meal, where the desert will be introduced.
“Excuse me,” Lela said. “I'm sorry. Excuse me, everyone.” Once she had the attention of her family, she continued, “Thank you. I know this holiday has been hard...on us all. We have all gone through a great loss. But...I would like us to take a moment and remember those things in our lives that we are thankful for. Who would like to go first?”
“Me,” Owen said, raising his hand.
“O?” Lela asked, surprised to see her nephew raising his hand. “Please. What are you thankful for?”
“My great-grandmother,” Owen replied. “Hannah Stead. For everything. Everything. She stood by me when...others did not want to. She helped me and loved me...when others did not want to. I was the black sheep...the black horse of the farm...so to speak. But never to Mimi. I was always beautiful to her.
This will be the first of many holidays that we will be spending without her. And we all miss her, for our own personal reasons. It was her that brought us together for these types of occasions...and it will be her memory that will bring us together in the future. She was called home, back to the farm, back to the horses.”
He raised his glass of soda.
“Hannah Stead. We love you. We will always remember you.”
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