We Had Today
By Butterscotch Cream
Flintlock grunted softly as he tried to huff the must out of his nose. The sunlight streaming through the smeared attic windows looked solid with the amount of dust his hooves had kicked up. One of these days, he'd drag up the magi-vac and clean the place out for good. One of these days...
But, that would wait till later, whenever later ended up being, and whatever day it happened to be on. In the meantime, he gave his whitened mane another shake and tromped over the creaky floorboards to one of the more well-lit corners of the room. It was amazing the amount of light got in that did, considering the old cobwebs matting the windows were so thick they might've been draperies.
A pile of boxes sat stacked beneath the front window, the same golden sunlight pouring over them like those blessed altars you read about in story books, except this altar was made of sagging, sun-bleached cardboard. Several of the boxes were spotted with brown and other odd colors where they'd sacrificed their looks to spare the contents the effects of a spilled coffee or a foal's industrious markers. Yet, a few had managed to keep their original paneling, belying their repurposed nature through advertisements of shoe polish, saddlesoap and harness oil. Still, even of the ones that had survived the years of use, most were so faded they looked antique.
Well, "looked." They probably were antiques, and not the expensive kind. Flintlock rolled his eyes slightly and pushed through them with little ceremony, though still tenderly in his own gruff way. There were a bunch of them. Posters, old military awards, his first dress uniform (probably the feast of moths by now) and other paraphernalia of assorted hobbies and interests that collected over the years, much like the dust that layered them. The one he wanted was somewhere toward the middle... pale blue... that weird, whatever-they-call-it embossing on the sides... there.
"Grf— Lebbid teh me ka geffis sduk dngrmn—" He mumbled unintelligibly as he tugged it out of the pile, the other boxes immediately slumping in to fill the gap left behind. With his quarry now freed, he set it down on a nearby stool and sighed, waving his hoof to chase away the additional itchy clouds his efforts had disturbed, like so many unclean spirits he'd constantly sworn to exorcise by power of broom and dustpan. When his eyes caught the box again though, they lingered, and he stood there simply gazing at it for a time. The dust-filtered sunbeams softened the air and gave the blue box an unearthly, fluctuating glow as they caressed the surface. It seemed... fitting, somehow.
"Well, let's get you on. No use dawdling." Flintlock sighed, shaking his head at himself as he grabbed the box again and carefully backed down the attic stairs one squeaky step after another. He gave the swirling dust-demons one last warning glare that threatened a cleaning implement to strike them down one of these days just for good measure. One of these days, just as he had threatened them last year. And the year before that. And the year... well, he'd get to it... one of these days. Maybe he'd send one of his nephews "dust-bunny hunting." That'd take care of it.
As he reached the bottom of the stairs, the gray pony sighed and snorted again, just to clear any extra dust that might've tried hitchhiking on his blue box, and pushed the fold-away back up into the ceiling with a springy clang. The hallway went suddenly dark when the sunlight was cut off, and with his nose cleared of old wood and old papers, the scent of the house swept in. It was almost shocking. It smelt... empty.
The old stallion stood there quietly, surveying the hallway back and forth with silent indecision. There was a light at the end of the hall where the sun was coming in from the lower floor. The couch was down there waiting for him, comfortable and soft, along with a cup of tea he'd brewed not long ago. The tea would get cold if he let it sit...
Eventually though, the soft wrenching in his chest won out, and he slowly pulled the fold-away down again and climbed back into the attic. Stuffy as it was, the room was warm and just as clogged with fond memories as dust and old parcels. Besides, he could always carry the box back down later, if he wanted.
Over by another window was a wooden desk and chair, still sitting expectantly and, aside from being dingy like everything else, still very much in order. In days gone by when the attic was much less full and much more clean, he'd used it to keep his books. There was still a mug-ring on the left side where his tea or coffee had sat, dutifully refilled whenever it got low. A cup with pencils and erasers long-dried were set on the other side. Part of him wanted to use the room again, but climbing up the ladder had grown to be more of a task than it used to be. Today was a special occasion.
As it was, he already had a coat of dust from his first foray, and the air couldn't get any worse, so he turned around and gave the desk surface a few swipes with his tail to clean it off. It wasn't perfect — more simply a broad, arc-shaped smear of "cleaner" space across the top — but it was good enough for his purposes. Flintlock pulled back the chair and groaned as he sat down in it, letting several things pop into their respective places. With an old stallion sitting in an old chair, he wasn't sure which of the two was creaking more, but it was relieving all the same. After a while, you only realize how sore your joints are once they cease being sore.
When he had settled in comfortably enough, he plopped the box down on the desk and sighed again. Once more, his vision settled on it and his thoughts were drawn away from the attic, away from the friendly, smiling sunlight in the room, to a place very much like it, and very happy, but all the same very distant. A place inside the box.
It was one of those fancy boxes, aka "old-fashioned" by contemporary standards, fitted with a white faux-satin lining that was just slightly yellow from the years of its existence, or perhaps more yellow than he wanted to admit. In his eyes it was still white, despite others who hadn't known it before describing it as "cream" or some other needlessly specific shade of not-white. It was white.
Nestled inside were five items, each of which he lifted out of the box with delicate care: an old, dried corsage of white roses, a horn ring with a diamond setting, a picture of a much younger Flintlock with his foreleg lovingly hugged about a unicorn colt, both smiling, a newspaper clipping and finally a letter. The other items were set to the side, but the letter he placed in front of himself and pushed the box back against the wall. The sunbeams seemed to shine a little brighter on the pages, as if to try and help with the stallion's habit. Though it was still folded, he knew every word, every letter, every tiny wiggle in the writing, and even as he pulled it open the first lines already echoed through his mind in a soft, familiar voice.
"Flint,
You're asleep right now, after an absolutely wonderful Hearts and Hooves day. The roses, the ring, the dinner, just... everything was perfect! I still have to think of some way to out-do you next year, but I'll leave that for another time. We've already said 'thank you' in just about every way we know how, but aside from affection and love making, my mind is going forward. I ought to be asleep I suppose, but there are some things I wanted to say, and since the words are in my head I figured now was as good a time as any to do it, rather than putting it off.
As I write this, I'm looking over at you sleeping, and I smile. We've been together years now, and I have never regretted a single day. I wanted to write this to you, so that you know now and always how grateful I am. Life is not easy. Living never is. But life is always worth it when you have someone to share it with. I've had the blessing of spending my life with you, and the joy of spending the rest of it with you.
When I was younger, though I was enthralled, I don't think I fully understood love like I do now, and with any good fortune there will be more I have yet to discover. Be that as it may, I think one of the greatest things I've come to realize is that true love isn't something one becomes bored with, nor something driven by passion, nor something which burns out or grows old. That sounds terribly sappy, and I know you haven't always been the "romantic" type, but regardless, it's true.
I love you, Flint, in a way I'm not sure I could ever describe with words. In some ways, it's only something I can show you by living with you every day, to be the one who smiles at you when you wake up, kisses you despite your morning breath, and goes to bed with you every night. You fill my heart in every way. Our lives have not been wholly happy as few ever are, but having you with me has been everything to me to make it through. There has not been a day I haven't wanted to be with you. While there have been times we've disagreed, I've known in all of those instances that at the end of the day, we loved each other, and you would be as happy to hold me as I would be to hold you.
I'm proud of you in so many ways. When people see me with you, sometimes I hope that they realize what you're like, so they know just how fortunate I am. You've always cared for me, and tried to do what was best. More than once you've sacrificed, thinking I didn't know when you had done things to make me happy.
You didn't put me on a pedestal though, or treat me like a sacred object, and you didn't have to. You treated me with love, and I've never felt so much like a part of someone as you. All my thoughts revolve around what you think, and all my feelings revolve around what you feel. When you smile, I feel like I've achieved the world, and when life is hard, I want nothing more than to hold you up and remind you that the world can be beautiful.
When each day comes to a close, I think about how I don't know what's in store for us. The world isn't perfect, and bad things happen. Tomorrow we could be in debt, or sick, or hurt. I know that 'tomorrow' is unknown. But I hold close to you, and I listen to your heartbeat, and I say to myself, 'We had today.' Then, I think about your love, I think about how I could possibly make you happy. I think about all of the wonderful things I've thought about you during the day, and I can sleep soundly knowing tomorrow is coming.
I guess that's what I want to really give you, here. No matter what happens, at the end of each day I want you to know that I'm thinking about you. I want you to know I love you, and not a moment passes where the thought of you doesn't make me a little happier. I want you to know that I trust you, regardless of whatever mistakes either of us make and I will follow you, and I will help you in every way I can.
The most beautiful thing about you is the fact you don't have to send me flowers each day or write me little notes, or do things for me, or even say the words for me to know you love me. You could forget our anniversary (and you have), you could forget my birthday (you've done that too), and I would still know beyond a doubt that you love me.
I see it in your eyes, I feel it in your body when you hold me, I hear it in whatever you say to me. It doesn't matter if you're passionate or subtle and gentle. The love is always there. It's my hope that you see the same in me, and when all is said and done I want you to be able to say, 'We had today.'
With love, ever-always,
Willow
Flintlock's hooves shook slightly as he drew his hoof off the last page, as they always did. Slowly, he picked up the corsage and sniffed it. After all those years it somehow managed to keep its aroma. Perhaps it was his imagination, and he didn't really care if it was, but he could swear it still held a hint of Willow's scent along with it. He could feel his hooves pinning it to Willow's vest. When he touched the ring, he felt Willow's horn inside of it. When he stroked a hoof over the letter, he could feel a pen scratching against it in the echoes of time. Finally, he glanced over the newspaper clipping.
"A tragedy happened early this morning, the day after Hearts and Hooves—..."
No... that was one thing he didn't need to read again. Maybe... that was something he could stand to leave out of the box, this year. It wasn't important anymore.
Instead, he pushed it aside and gently picked up the photo, gazing into Willow's eyes a few moments before he pressed it to his nose and closed his own, setting the tears that had been collecting free. The sunlight felt warm against his face, and for a blissful moment it reminded him of Willow's muzzle pressed to his in the tender way he always had. He sucked in a few shallow breaths and kissed the picture as his tears trickled down onto the pages, joining the stains of previous years. Somewhere, he felt Willow kissing back, and he smiled softly.
"I had today..."
Author's Note
For those who recognize it, yes, this story was named after the song "We Had Today" from the soundtrack of "One Day."
