By Monty Wheeler
Melinda stood outside the barn,
just where her daddy said, and waited with just one part hope and three parts
of pure dread. She hated surprises for
too many times her hopes were shattered and scattered like broken roles of
shiny, thin dimes. The worst was when
Daddy took Mama to that germ free place; she didn’t come back to dry the tears
from one scared little face; they said she was dead and gone to God’s
grace. But Melinda knew better, and so
many nights Mama held her with care.
The big barn door opened, and Daddy
walked out. She peeked through the
fingers of hand-covered eyes; she couldn’t imagine what was her surprise. Daddy led out a huge dappled gray, and oh,
how she loved that horse right away.
Even his gait had some special sway.
The gleam in his eye gave Melinda to cry; but happy tears she
spilled. Her uncle asked her, “How many
hands?” All she could muster was
clapping with joy; her hands were for petting, not measuring that boy.
She’d never been of lace or yarn,
no pearl one, knit two, she’d urge to learn.
She loved the farm and barnyard scents at dawn. But how they laughed at her in school; they
always said, “Your daddy dresses you funny!” when she wore her little girl Roper
boots and Wrangler jeans and snaps on shirts, and oh, how those snaps always
shined so nice, like little bitty chips of colored ice in full sunlight. Some days she cried and others denied her
wounded, hurting heart.
Out came
the tack; Melinda stepped back and screamed, “No! Don’t want that stuff, Daddy; it hurts my new horse!”
“Without
the saddle, I can’t let you ride,” her daddy said in voice just as soft as
goose down bed. “And without the
bridle, there’s no way you can guide.”
“I don’t
care, Daddy,” Melinda pouted. “Don’t
want that shiny thing hitting his teeth, and don’t want those straps to go
tight underneath!”
“But,
Melinda, you can’t ride—“
“Just watch
me, Daddy,” Melinda cried. She led the
large steed to the old well house, climbed the rock wall, and with handful of
mane, she went for it all.
The big,
gentle breed of remarkable steed—as if he knew the little girl’s need—walked to
the fence but stopped to return to the bucket, as Daddy rattled the corn. But Melinda had none of that corn-spoiled
fun. A cowgirl’s instinct tugged at his
mane; he turned down the fencerow as if it were plain the big, ol’ horse the
little girl wanted much the same thing.
“Melinda!”
her daddy called and started their way.
She set him to trot; it bounced her a lot, but with both hands deep in
his natural mane, she stayed on his back, ne’er noticed the pain of bouncing on
his hard knobbed spine. At canter he
smoothed the rough-on-her ride, and more she urged by rubbing his side. His gallop was smooth as riding on air;
Melinda clung tight to his neck and cackled, for freedom was hers, a cowgirl
unshackled.
She failed
to see with her wide-eyed stare the far north fence across the “out
there.” But oh, how her horse could set
a girl free; ne’er could she run as fast as he. And bigger he grew in her mind’s eye until he loomed large as big
ol’ blue sky. And nearer the fence, but
still they’d not slow, and nearer the fence at full gallop they’d go. “Now Dasher! Now Dancer! Now Prancer
and Vixen!” She cried reindeers’ names,
and none seemed to fit; her horse was a dasher, but that name was not it.
She felt
her steed tense, and then came the sense of dangerous barbs in that
five-stranded fence. He drew his legs
under and gathered his force, t’was naught she could do but hold fast to her
course. Behind Melinda, she heard
Daddy scream, “Hold on to him, Baby!”
His voice seemed extreme, for ne’er had she felt so lighter than air, as
the horse cleared the fence with inches to spare.
As Pegasus rose, he caught an
updraft, and far below, she saw Daddy’s arms waving so fast like he tried to
fly. Melinda waved “bye” and called “I
love you! I’m going to see Mama! I’ll kiss her for you and tell her you love
her and miss her lots too!”
Pegasus flew into the bright
morning sun. A horse and a cowgirl—two
to share one dream of forever, and friendship begun.
The End
So beautiful and tender Monty. Hope it's not wrote to be true.
ReplyDeletety's, Susie, and rest well; it's purely fiction, but if it rings as possible true, my job as poet's done well too :)
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