One Good Horse
Preface
WHAT'S PAST IS PROLOGUE.
-- WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE,
The Tempest
In trots the colt. Look at him. Beautiful and nameless. A coming two-year-old. His black mane traps the sunlight, his coat still shaggy from winter. Eyes bright, mischievous, like a little boy waiting to pull a trick. Like me, he is full of wonder and a little scared. He trots around the small round corral, showing off a bit, kicking at a cloud. And then he stops and turns toward me, breathing me in. Waiting. Waiting for the heavy spring clouds to lift and reveal the heights of the Mission Mountains. Waiting for the shadows of returning birds to paint the land gray. I remember how the lake, now like poured lead, turns summer chrome. I remember it all, sometimes, just before I go to bed.
Memory is a narcotic. The outstretched arms of a souvenir as it beckons you to remember, to dream. In this life, you are promised nothing, and everything.
I look back sometimes, and though I recall vague outlines, I cannot remember the specific shape of things that were once so important in my life. A boss's face, the sound of a ... read full excerpt from: One Good Horse ebook
