My father would always tell me her stories. When it seemed the most unexpected, he would mention her. A slight whisper, warm at the touch, but with a bitter depth. Full of the words longing to escape his voice, grasping to be heard. The words mingled with his actions, and he soon enough found himself swaying to her stories, gasping for the breath she once mustered.
"Darling," his hushed words would linger, "Don't cut the garlic sideways. Your mother, she would always cut straight forward. Paying the upmost careful inspection, in fact. Every slice seemed to be exactly the same. She was a born chef." He would clasp the knife in his wing, which, despite his shivering body, moved to a rhythm, cutting each stalk precisely. He seemed to mimic her feel, her touch, as if it was the only way to remember her.
I would always watch, silently. I didn't know how to respond. How to hear the memories of a pony I had never known in my life. To hear the memories of a pony I should have known my entire life. It was amazing, how many times I heard about her, but how I never actually saw her.
He would take me out for flying lessons, which I always desperately needed. We'd fly above a thunderstorm, and settle onto a cloud for lunch. The wind howled below our bodies, as we sat safely above the tormenting coils of the storm. The wind dragged below our feet, but above the gray winds, we ate, unharmed. He ate quietly. "Your mother," he proclaimed, swallowing his last bits of sandwich, "she would fly through the worst of thunderstorms, at times, to deliver the daily post. She was so determined."
I stared at him, wishing to find a way to comfort him, but too saddened to open my pressured lips. When silence greeted him, though, he continued to brush it away with memories. "One time, we were flying together, after midnight. During the night, the air seemed so cool. So alive. It had that passion to it, unlike the day skies. We loved its refreshing, dark breath. It spoke of freedom. Your mother and I, we'd always take night flights. It was almost impossible to see where we were going that night, however. The moon had reached the part of its cycle where it seemed to vanish from the sky. Soon enough, I lost sight of her, only to hear her clanging screams from afar. I flew so fast that night, Fluttershy. I eventually found her, caught in between two harsh lightning clouds. Her wing had stuck to one, and professedly could not escape its clinging moisture. Lightning was hurling everywhere, and brashly struck her fur, burning her delicate gold fur to cinders. I stared, awestruck. But as soon as a blast of light screeched into the night sky, closing in on her, I pounced. I grabbed her so quickly, with so much force, and flew away. I couldn't let her go, darling. She was all I had. She was not going to die in my hooves."
His stories were, at times, so vivacious, but at others, solemn, as if it were frozen to the touch. He acted as if he owned them. He tucked them neatly away in his mind, capturing every last detail, until he could release them. Always unto me. It was though he lived through her life stories. Through his memories of her. Through his love, which seemed to never die, for a pony who had died long ago.
She had died during my childbirth. It was a mistake no one could have foreseen, but became deadly. I'd like to believe it wasn't my fault she died. My father reinforced that thought, acknowledging that no one could have possibly known she would die while giving birth to me. But still, it's difficult knowing that your life had cost someone else's death.
One night, when I was just a young foal, I had a terrible nightmare. I screamed myself awake, and my father hurried to my bedside. "Daddy," I cried, looking up at his soft, periwinkle hoof that gently stroked my hair, "Mommy was there. And she hugged me, but then... then, she left. And I couldn't see her anymore."
My father had sat down on my bed at that point, and lifted me into his hooves. Warm trails of tears ran down my back from where he cradled me. We were both crying. My head arched in the nook of my father's neck, and my tears splattered my matted fur. He did not speak. But he sat there, trying to comfort me, although he couldn't even comfort himself.
"She is gone," his voice cracked as his words floated away from his tender, aching heart.
"Will she ever come back, Daddy?" I whispered slowly, grasping onto his thick chest with my small hooves. I hugged him tightly, awaiting comfort in his language.
"No," he breathed in, slowly at first, and exhaled his grief onto my petite shoulders.
"I'm sorry, Daddy," I whimpered, smudging the tears from my salty, stained face.
That was the only time I ever apologized for killing my mother.
My father brought me to the Town Square, one day, to go shopping. He was talking to the mare behind the carrot stand when I noticed her. A mare, with a light golden coat and a luxurious velvet mane. Based on my father's descriptions of my mother, I was surely convinced that the mare was her. Before I fully realized what I was doing, I ran up to her and hugged her with all my might. The mare looked down at me, and did not recognize me. I was mistaken.
My father soon realized I was gone and ran over to me, detaching me from the mare. He brushed me away, deeply apologizing to the lady. She didn't mind my assumption, however, and politely said goodbye to us.
We returned to pick up our carrots, and flew away to our cottage. My father flew silently, carrying me on his back. At the final turn to arrive home, though, he split left instead of right.
"Your mother was much more beautiful than that mare. That mare you saw, she wasn't her. You have never seen your mother, Fluttershy. So now, you will."
We declined into a flowery meadow, where all the birds chirped wondrous melodies. The trees were lively, shattering the sun's rays into beautiful shadows. My father reached the ground, and turned his head away. Looking down, he shortly commanded, "Follow me."
We traveled silently into the field, reaching a tree split in two. At its root sat a stone monument, with the words, "My Love," inscribed onto its thick, stone surface.
My father stood, staring deep into the gravestone. "This is your mother," his voice drifted away, and he silently screamed, tears trickling down his face, and grief swiftly clambering into his shivering, gaping breath.
"Your mother," his voice blossomed from his wilting body, "on the day you were born, told me to live beyond the past, and into the future. She wisely stroked my heart with the words, "Do not grasp onto the memories of my life, and forget how to live." But, darling Fluttershy, I have failed her."
That day, I stood there, inhaling my sorrow, and exhaling my words, "Your wife was so beautiful, Father. She died, still breathing her last strum of life. And in her death, you died. Please, Father, please choose to live again."
