A Stillborn Foal

I. 

I heard you cradled a stillborn foal in your arms, carried it into your kitchen and laid it on old newspaper. I heard you sat for days staring at its body, watching placenta dry slick and hard between its ribs and knees. I heard PTSD. I never heard what happened to the foal, if it was taken to a field, a gift for coyotes and crows, eagles and hawks, but later, I liked to envision the foal jerking awake with a rush of breath, flicking sheets of newspaper into arcs as it lurched up and bounded into the yard, rending dirt and grass with soft thuds. I imagined I could see you jerk awake and follow. I could see you lean against the doorjamb, your mouth open wide with laughter.  

II. 

I wish I had lain with you, rested on your mattress in the memory care center, and kissed your cheek. I felt unsure, holding your hand, my pinky resting near the spot where your index finger had been chopped off by a machinery belt. Your mind gone, a body discarded, your hair a white plume (I will not say halo, but I have) around your head—what could I say to you? What more could we share? A week before, in the dining hall, we had asked if you wanted crackers. “Crackers,” you beamed. “He was a good horse.” You looked up, face alight with dreams of your beloved horse, and you said nothing else. When we said goodbye, I kneeled beside your bed and squeezed your limp hand. I whispered that I loved you, hoping you could hear me, knowing you couldn’t. I walked out and wished for any other way to say goodbye. I wish I had lain with you, rested with you, held what was left of your body, and kissed your cheek.  

III. 

Years ago, you pointed to a bay in the field and asked, “Have you ever seen a more beautiful walk?” I couldn’t see it—the marvel of this horse’s stride—so we stepped closer, beneath the pines, holding fence wire as we watched the bay and sorrel ahead step easy, swish their tails, and bow to grass. You showed me how the bay lifted its hind leg, a slight halt with each step. I watched until I saw it plain as day, saw it distinct and, yes, beautiful. When I looked back, you were gone. I turned again, stepped between the barbed wire and walked to the horses.  

I will wait here a while, in this pasture where I can still feel your hand on my shoulder, can still see the nub on your other hand pointing, teaching me how to look, and I will look for that hitch in time when the bay’s leg holds like it will never fall.  

Brock Henry Allen is an essayist from Montana currently living in Lubbock, Texas, where he is a PhD student in creative writing at Texas Tech University. His essays can be found or are forthcoming in Shenandoah, The Pinch, Diagram, Pithead Chapel, and elsewhere. More at brockhenryallen.com.

This essay is a Short Reads original.