I’m Pinkie Pie. I can make anypony smile.
I meet her at one of the tea houses that line the shining streets of Canterlot. The city is full of such places: precision in white marble trimmed with lacquer and gems. It’s an austere, exacting beauty, almost too perfect for mortal eyes; it’s like this city was made to match her. Overdressed mares in their frilly outfits sit at tables too small under umbrellas too large and try to avoid spilling tea on cloth worth more than I am. It’s a fine joke that I intend to join them, but I hide my laughter. Genuine joy is impolite here.
I have to see her, of course; it is a rarity for me to wander so far. The unintentional pun brings a smile to my face, but it soon fades, washed away by glares and upturned noses. The capital has never gotten along with me the way it does with her, and the feeling is mutual. It was always too stiff, too quiet, too old, and it felt like I was pouring my youth down a bottomless pit when I tried to bring cheer to the ponies here. For a time, it was worth trying anyhow. Now that I too have grown still, and quiet, and old, the hole is within me; I have nothing left to spare for Canterlot. Even so, I will always have everything to spare for her, because even that would not match her generosity.
It’s been too long, of course, and neither of us can remember the last time we met. It was years ago, at some event lively enough for me to call a party but still formal enough to merit her attention. The details escape us both, and the memories are long gone; I’ve given them too much time to hide, and even the ones that I can find have grown a thick coat of fuzz in my absence.
It doesn’t matter. We laugh it off, like we always do, and I’m glad that that, at least, has not changed. I see her smile, and it’s like the years that stretch so long behind us fall away. We’re friends.
“Party of two?” a waiter asks, and it is. I still bring a party with me wherever I go, though I’ve realized that the balloons and cake aren’t the truth in that statement, and they were never her style anyway. A cannon can launch decorations but never sharing. Sharing is what matters; the rest is just wrapping, pretty but not the point.
We share. We talk of old friends and new friends and sip the tea that’s nearly as bitter as the memories. She offers honey, but I refuse, and I don’t have the heart to tell her that it would hurt my teeth to accept. The harsh brew has its own charm, and at least I know that she tastes the same thing on the tip of her tongue, drowning out the words too heavy to swallow and too harsh to spit. I have truths too painful to speak and apologies too late to matter, and I don't doubt for a second that she does as well. It’s not worth polluting the table with such talk.
Trivialities move the sun through the sky, and though the banal conversation and its saccharine words drill into my molars, I endure. I don’t have the appetite for heavier fare. It’s not hard to steer the conversation; she has always been focused on other ponies, even at her most selfish. She doesn’t put on makeup for the mirror or airs for her own amusement. I ask about a relative and buy some time. With luck, it will last.
I used up all my luck when I was a younger mare.
She talks about herself. She tells me about all that she’s given away, but I can only hear how little she has left. She tells me about all the good she’s done, but I hear nothing of good done for her. Her voice plays a symphony, but I can only hear the rests, the things unsaid, the things she never meant to imply. I know her well enough to guess. Soon enough, her words are too painful, and I must focus on her face instead of her mouth.
Age never seemed to hound Rarity the way it did with the rest of us. We didn’t think about it in our youth, at least not as much as it deserved. I certainly never did. I think that she was always keenly aware of what time had in store for us, and she tried to work against it. Her face looks almost the same as it did decades ago, but that does not surprise me, and neither do the things that have changed. The thinner lines and points of bone barely covered by skin and coat only give her a more severe and exotic beauty.
She wears a mask of attention and time and love and chemicals, and it replicates a familiar face so well, but I know that it is a mask nonetheless. I can see past it. I can see the lines she’s filled in. I can see the bags under her eyes. I can see that the luster of her coat is no longer the natural shine of a pearl; the glow about her is one born from countless hours spent polishing. More hours these days, it seems.
Someday, I know, the mask will grow too thick to support itself. It will leave her all at once, dissolving like the wings of gossamer and morning dew that supported her over Cloudsdale so long ago. Without a shield, without protection from the judgement of the world, I do not know how she will fare. Perhaps it would be better if she went with it, if she dissolved along with her mask, and left behind only mist and rainbows to mark where she had been. It is a grim thought, but fitting; if anypony deserves a beautiful death, if anypony would long for one, it’s her.
She’s silent now, and she looks to me expectantly. I talk. It’s never been difficult for me. The difficulty lies in knowing what not to say, what topics to skirt, what pitfalls to avoid. I dodge them all, and with merciful swiftness, the time comes to settle the bill. I insist on an even split even after Rarity offers to pay for me. I know that she can no more afford her half than I can afford mine. We pay with money we can’t spare and smile at the opportunity.
As the waiter takes the bill, Rarity moves to stand. I ask her to wait, calling out with an urgency that shocks even me, and she settles back in her chair. It’s time to do what I came here for. I shake an envelope out of my mane, and it lands on the table, her name writ large across its face. I push it across the table with a hoof, and she takes it, tucking it into one of the folds of her dress. I don’t ask her to open it; I know she will, and she can probably guess what’s inside anyway. She nods at me, and I see the gratitude in her eyes, gratitude that doesn’t need words.
It’s time to move on for both of us, and we say goodbyes that seem more final than they ought to. At our age, who knows? We may not get another chance. I tell one last joke and file the smile that results among my most precious memories.
A cold wind blows as we step out of the shop, and slowly but surely, the chill begins to seep into my bones. I make my excuses and we part, but I cannot shake the look in her eyes. It is a tight strain that screams for respite from a world that it just can’t bear to witness any longer. Rarity’s exhaustion is clear to me, starkly clear, and it hurts to see her walking away. The knowledge that I am not strong enough to share her burden gnaws at me.
I can see it now, even if I don’t like it: Rarity is tired.
I don’t visit Rainbow Dash nearly as often as I could. It’s not such a journey these days; I don’t need a balloon and a spell for every trip. It’s so much more convenient now that she lives in a house made of wood, past a yard and a path and a quaint little road with a dozen houses just like it, all firmly anchored to the dirt. The aloof air of her home in the heavens is gone, and sometimes it seems like sacrilege that I can simply walk up and knock on the door. I always held her so far above me, and nothing could compare to the pride I felt when she brought me up to her level and welcomed me into her world. She can’t pull me up anymore; she’s anchored to the earth just like I am. I miss her old house. I miss the rainbows. I miss the way Ponyville spread out below me and the way clouds scrunched up like piles of cotton under my hooves when I visited her.
I know that she misses it more.
On a day just like any other save that my inward excuses are all worn out, I make the trip. I am shocked by how quickly I arrive, but then, I always am. I knock just once; that’s all it takes. I don’t have time to draw my hoof back for a second strike. It’s good to know that she can still be fast when she wants to be. The door swings open, and she greets me with a grin and a look of devotion as complete as the ones I used to give her, back when I spent my days watching her train for the Wonderbolts. She ushers me inside and disappears into the kitchen. There’s more tell than ask in her voice as she shouts over her shoulder to offer me a drink; I can’t help but accept.
The house is the same as the last time I visited. It’s the same as it was when she moved in, I think, but the memories have faded too far for me to be certain of it. A living room, a kitchen, and a loft are all there is to the place. It’s certainly no cloud castle, no fit dwelling for such a legendary pony. She tried to make it one, but she’s not an opulent mare by any measure, and she's not one to ask Rarity for advice. Perhaps that’s for the best. In some ways, it’s spartan: just a single couch, a table, a bookshelf, a doorway to a simple kitchen, and four walls lined with trophy cases. Still, it’s not simple for simplicity’s sake, and it’s certainly not a matter of humility, not by a long shot.
The furniture, what little there is, is the best. The couch is imported from a land whose name I can’t pronounce, and it’s softer than any cloud. The table matches, covered with intricate carvings that have been worn down by Dash’s less than conscientious stewardship. The cases on the walls gleam with golds and silvers, with prizes and awards and medals and commendations and uniforms. So many uniforms. I was surprised on my first visit to see that the Wonderbolt regalia was not the centerpiece, but the armor of a royal guard always suited her better. All the best things she did, she did for those who were important to her, and that’s something to be proud of if anything is. None of her failures or failings change that.
The loft bedroom, set high above, where only a pegasus can access it, is also a matter of pride. Her dignity precludes sleeping on the ground floor, or so she insisted when we helped her move in.
She’s been in the kitchen for a while, but I don’t mind the wait. I take a seat on the couch and ignore the pile of sheets and blankets that peeks out from under it. She’ll make her excuses for them eventually, and it’s not like they come as any sort of surprise. I don’t know why she bothers to hide them. Perhaps she just cares more about what I think. I wouldn’t be surprised, but I doubt that’s it; she’s lying to herself most of all. I have no desire to break that illusion.
Eventually, she emerges. The tray in her mouth wobbles as she guides it through the door. A large glass bottle mostly filled with an amber liquid and two crystal cups slide across it in fits and starts as their world tilts from side to side. Her face is scrunched up with concentration, and it’s no wonder; in some ways, the burden seems to dwarf her. She was always a pony built for speed: sleek and lithe, her muscles more like lines of tension than bulges of strength. The short coat and immaculately preened feathers of her youth had only strengthened that impression.
Now that’s all gone. Already small, she only shrank with age. Disuse robbed her of her muscles, and time and inattention conspired to steal her beauty. Now her coat is long, more a fuzz than a trim, and a lack of care has caused the down of her wings to puff out. On her thin frame, the extra volume doesn’t even give the illusion of size; it just evokes the image of her body as nothing more than a puff of fur and feathers. It looks like it could all come apart in a stiff breeze.
Her mane and tail are pure white, now.
She crosses the room with long, quick strides, her body moving with the memory of a strength long gone. She winces every few steps and fails to hide it, and she lets a sigh of relief slip out when she sets her burden on the coffee table with a rattle of glass on metal. I offer to help her pour, but she refuses with an offended grimace and asks what sort of host that would make her, punctuating the point with a roll over her eyes. I wonder aloud whether she’s been spending too much time with Rarity, and that at least gets a grin and a snort out of her.
She uncorks the brew with a twist of her head and spits the stopper onto the table without ceremony or thought. Even from a distance, the acrid fumes assault my nose, but she takes a long draw of the air above the bottle with relish and declares it to be the good stuff. Perhaps it really is; I’ve never had the palate for it, but I won’t refuse when she’s the one offering. She fills the glasses nearly to the brim and takes a seat beside me.
“Cheers.”
I close my eyes and try to throw the drink past my tongue, to swallow without ever letting it touch any part of me, but the taste is stubborn and refuses to be ignored so easily. It’s a bitter liquid death, and it burns its way down my throat to settle like a white-hot coal in my stomach. For a few shuddering seconds, I struggle to keep it down. My eyes shoot open of their own accord, and my vision quickly blurs. The good stuff indeed, if it’s to your liking, but it’s not to mine.
Her muzzle finds its way back to the bottle and she offers me another glass with a nod of her head and a raised eyebrow. My polite refusal comes out slurred, and she snorts as she pours herself another dose. The brew wobbles as she sets it back on the tray, but she doesn’t pay it any mind. She just shrugs and tells me to suit myself, and she doesn't let it slow her down. She has a pension to drink away.
“Do you remember when?”
I don’t, not always, but then neither does she. We tell tales of ancient pranks and desperate battles and good friends. We each fill in gaps in the other’s memory, sharing minor details and key events to weave a tapestry of nostalgia together. I can’t believe how many of the good times I can remember, if pressed, but I’m also shocked by all the things that I’ve forgotten. I think she feels the same way.
We dig up a memory and find a hole that neither of us can quickly fill. There’s a name on the tip of both our tongues, but no amount of hemming and hawing and frowning and guessing summons it forth. We set it aside and move on, but inspiration strikes without warning, and I can’t help but shout it out. Her brow furrows with irritation when I interrupt her, but it’s forgotten as recognition slams into place and her eyes light up with delight. She grins that same old cocky grin from so long ago. It’s good to see it again; it’s another old friend that I nearly allowed to drift away.
The memories end a decade ago. She doesn’t seem to have any stories more recent, and I don’t want to taunt her with mine. She asks how the others are doing, and I answer with a few cheerful half-truths. I don’t think they’ll arrive to contradict me. She sips her drink in silence.
Rainbow Dash asks me to send them her regards. I will.
She sets her glass down one last time. There’s nothing left to pour. That fact seems to hit her harder than the drink did. She turns to frown at the kitchen, and she throws her weight forward, not quite making it to her hooves before collapsing back onto the couch. She stares at her old armor with half-lidded eyes that flutter as she fights for consciousness. Her mouth twists into a sneer as she starts to murmur an incoherent stream of vitriol.
I do the merciful thing. I stand up and prod her shoulder; a light shove is all it takes to topple her. She’s asleep before her head hits the cushion, or so I tell myself. Her eyes are closed, at least.
I take the tray back to the kitchen and rinse the last lingering drips of ichor from the bottom of the bottle and glasses, then I fill them all with water. I’m more careful on the return trip, but I don’t have as much trouble as Rainbow Dash did; I know how to center and balance weight on a tray. Her experience in service is national, not domestic.
I set the tray on the table, nudging it close enough that she can reach but far enough away that she won’t knock it all over with a careless movement. She’s managed to roll herself onto her back in my absence. That won’t do. I nudge her onto her side and rearrange the cushions to keep her in place. I pull the well-used blankets out from under the couch and tuck her in. I don’t want to see her like this, not more than I absolutely have to, but I have one more thing that I need to do. I shake my mane, and an envelope falls out, landing on the table. I pull it away from the tray. No need to take risks, after all. I give Rainbow Dash one more glance and a satisfied nod and step away.
I wander the perimeter of the room, squinting into display cases and reading plaques. In some ways, her house is like a museum. I suppose if I had to be specific, I would call it a history museum, but that isn’t quite it, either. Most of those are dedicated to the histories of more than one pony. A morbid thought occurs to me: it’s a eulogy in four walls. Is it worse that she’s still around to see it? Is it worse that she wrote it herself?
I hear a snore behind me, and the deep breaths of a healthy sleep. She doesn’t need me here any more. I take one last look around. I can’t count the number of gleaming commemorations of glorious acts. She did so much in her life, and I can’t fault her for the path she walks in her old age. Perhaps inaction is a luxury for her; she lived more than any of us, did more and fought more, and all at breakneck speed. As I close the door behind me and begin the journey home, I can’t help but think that Rainbow Dash has earned her rest.
The sun shines brightly over Sweet Apple Acres, but not as brightly as the smiles of its inhabitants. There’s a horde of them today, all gathered around the sprawling farmhouse, singing and dancing and playing horseshoes. They greet me with waves and welcome me as an honored guest; I'm an old friend of the family, and to the Apple family, family are friends and friends are family. It all nearly brings a tear to my eye. I’m a sucker for parties.
I wind my way through the crowds, exchanging warm words with grown stallions that have known me all their lives and joking with the foals of mares I used to babysit. Every year I’m shocked by how much they’ve all changed, but it feels good to watch them grow. It seems like only heartbeats, but the sun tells me it’s been nearly an hour before I find myself in front of the porch of the Apple family home.
The structure is a quilt, a building of patches. A half-century of improvements and additions in every color under the sun spread to either side of me, built to accommodate a family that just grew and grew. The center, however, is the same as it ever was. I’ve hosted more parties than I can count in the back of that converted barn, and the front door is just as familiar to me. The porch just outside has always been there, if my memory serves. I frown. Maybe I’m wrong, but I can’t remember a time without it. It seems like it’s always been that way.
The matron of the family presides over it all from her throne on the old porch. Applejack rocks slowly in her chair and calls out a lazy greeting when she sees me. I smile and return it as I head for the stairs, but a couple of strapping young stallions rush past me and I stop, surprised. They deposit a second rocking chair next to Applejack’s and nod politely at me as they return to the festivities. I snort at the gesture, but I’m not one to reject hospitality. I climb the steps and ease my old bones into the empty seat. It tilts a bit, then tilts back. The motion is comforting.
For a few minutes, Applejack and I just enjoy the warm sun and clean air in silence, an island of calm in the middle of a sea of activity. A swarm of colts and fillies runs by, trailed by a runt that just can’t keep up. Applejack shouts his name and tells him to stop. She offers him some advice and a mischievous wink and his eyes light up as he hides near the corner. As the pack comes back around, the colt jumps out and manages to land a hoof on one of the leaders with a shout of triumph.
Colts and fillies scatter in every direction, and the newly christened "it!" chases after a clump of them. Applejack and I just chuckle. Sometimes watching is nearly as good as playing.
We talk. Old times, fresh news, the weather, every subject is given its time. She’s in no rush, and neither am I. A smiling yellow mare brings us lemonade; when she leaves, Applejack grumbles that she married into the family. We sip our drinks in the afternoon sun, and Applejack complains about how much better apple juice is. She finishes her glass anyway, sucking a racket through the straw as she vacuums up the last few drops.
I’ve waited long enough. I reach into my mane and dislodge an envelope, letting it fall onto the table between us. I push it toward Applejack with a hoof, and she eyes it before shaking her head, grinning. She wonders aloud why she’s not surprised. She licks a hoof and plants it on the paper, and the envelope sticks long enough for her to deposit it under her hat.
The foals pass by again, a tiny stampede that shakes our glasses. We cheer them on, though I have no idea what game they’re playing now. It doesn’t truly matter. We laze the afternoon away, and soon enough a call rings out over the apple trees.
“Soup’s on, everypony!”
The crowds move like a tide to long tables covered with every type of apple-flavored treat. A group of stallions breaks off from the herd and divides into pairs to carry Applejack and I to the feast, chairs and all. She spends the ride insisting that she could get there just fine on her own, thank you very much, but her great-nephews just trot along in stoic silence. Eventually, Applejack gives up and crosses her front hooves, grumbling that the stallions take after Big Macintosh too much. I don’t mind the ride at all. I put up my hooves with an exclamation of glee, and my bearers obligingly swing the chair back and forth as they walk. Applejack rolls her eyes, but she smiles anyhow.
They seat her at the head of the center table and set my seat down at her right hoof. As she stands to make a speech, she waves away offers of help, but I see her lean against the table to keep upright. I don’t think anypony but me notices. A few mercifully short words about the value of family and how proud she is of everypony for being able to make it and she takes her seat again. A hundred ponies wait for Applejack to take the first bite of the meal, and a spell seems to break when she does. The silent tables burst into conversation as the clatter of dishes and utensils fills the field.
I dig in with relish, but Applejack doesn’t eat much; a few bites of apple pie and she’s done. She spends the meal watching, gazing down the table at her family as they feast and smile and argue and embrace. The sight seems to fill her more than the food did.
I study her. Applejack’s age shows, but she carries it with dignity, and the hunched back and wrinkles don’t seem to matter as much as her eyes. I can see the same weariness there as I do in my other friends, but there’s something else in them as well, twinkling as she watches the reunion. For a moment, I can’t place it, but when I do it seems obvious: they’re filled with pride. She’s tired, but in this moment she’s also happy, and I’m happy for her. We smile and drink deeply of the noise and youth and life around us.
Sometimes watching is nearly as good as playing.
When I visit most of my friends, it’s because I want to. When I visit Fluttershy, it’s because I need to. Something draws me to her. It’s like a constant pull in the back of my mind—sometimes strong, sometimes weak, but always there. More and more often these days, I can’t resist the call. I grab a few flowers in a quick arrangement, enough for a light meal, and I go.
I break the silence of her clearing when I arrive. I can only assume that it’s much more peaceful without me here; my heavy hooffalls and echoing voice scare off some of her animal friends. They’ll be back; it was their clearing first, after all, and that won’t change no matter how many ponies take up residence. Besides, she doesn’t object. She never does. I sit beside her. My lips twitch at an inward joke, but I don’t share it with her. I don’t try to make her smile anymore. I don’t have to.
Perhaps that’s what brings me here. It’s only when I’m with her that I realize how much of a relief it is, not to work for every smile, to finally and fully relax. With every other pony, I try so hard. It’s a burden I carry without thinking, without questioning, without hope for relief. But here? Here I can let it go.
I could just talk, if I wanted to, speak without thought or purpose. It would be just like the old days, back when there was nothing wrong, when there was only optimism and trivialities on my mind. I don’t have to hide anything from Fluttershy. She never tells me to go away or quiet down or shut up. She won’t ever judge me. I could just talk.
I don’t, of course. I’d have to hear it, and I’m simply not ready to hear some of the things I’m dying to say. I just lie back on the trimmed grass and breathe the fresh air.
In time, nature returns to the clearing. Birds fly overhead, squirrels chatter in the trees, and a butterfly lands on my forehead. It’s pink, the same pink as her cutie mark. I’m not sure whether fate is trying to be touching or cruel with that gesture, but I’m happy to provide a bit of camouflage either way. Everything is peaceful.
I blink. It’s too peaceful. I didn’t come to bring Fluttershy peace; she has enough of that already.
So I reminisce, and I start to sound like Rainbow Dash, never mentioning anything less than a decade past. I tell long stories and one-line jokes, and I let her in on little bits of gossip long past their expiration dates. I talk and I laugh and my hooves fly as I drive home points with reflexive gestures.
Fluttershy is silent. It’s okay; I make more than enough noise for the both of us. I smile wide enough for two. I try to ignore the fact that this is what I came for. I’ve become greedy in my old age; it’s about me now, not her. I bring a party with me wherever I go, and I enjoy it wherever I set it down. I just wish I could share it with her. Attendance means little without participation. I suppose she was always a bit of a wallflower, but she was a warm and reassuring presence at any gathering. I wish more than anything that she still could be. There’s nothing I hate more than a party of one.
Eventually, even I tire of my antics. I get up and say a quick farewell. I don’t need to bother with a long goodbye; I’ll be back, and she will be here waiting for me when I arrive. I can count on that, no matter what. The only question in my mind is: will I still be able to liven the place up the next time I arrive? I hope so.
I leave the bouquet and an envelope by her headstone and make my way home.
I open my eyes. Energy brims within me, a giddy excitement that builds as I stretch and kick off the satiny sheets of my bedspread. It’s time for me to greet another day and spread joy and cheer to all of my friends. The mere thought brings a grin to my face. I’m Pinkie Pie, and I can make anypony smile. It’s time to get to work. I roll over and leap out of bed, my too-youthful legs sending me just a bit higher than even I would consider possible.
I am dreaming. As soon as I become aware of the fact, the unyielding weight of reality slams into place.
I open my eyes. I shiver; the chill morning air has managed to slip between my sheets and worm its way into my bones. I groan and stretch, but my joints only bend so far these days, and the blankets are more of a burden than a comfort. It’s time for me to greet another day and spread what joy and cheer I can. It’s not as easy as it once was. I roll over and slide out of bed, letting gravity deposit me on my hooves.
Mornings are always the hardest. For most of the day, after an hour or two out in the sun spent walking and talking and joking, I can almost fool myself. I forget my age and simply exist, a Pinkie Pie unburdened by achy muscles, stiff joints, dulled senses, and the subtle but ever-present hint of exhaustion that lays siege to my consciousness. There, though, in that cloth cocoon, it all comes rushing back. I blame the dreams for it; they remind my body that it wasn’t always this way. In them, I see the young pony I once was: bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, and ready to look the world in the eyes and make funny faces at it. Celestia help me, I try to be her, but it’s not as easy as it once was.
I shuffle my halting way to a fireplace across the room. Even taking short steps, I feel the stretch in my stiff ligaments, that sharp tightness that settles barely on the border of pain. It’s not so bad; the old things are just stubborn in the cold, and the feather-light brushes of agony as I warm them up and stretch them out are viscerally satisfying in a way. I grab a poker in my mouth and scrape at the ashes in the grate, excavating last night’s banked embers and corralling them into a workable pile. The old coals are not dead yet; a bit of work and they’ll be good as new. With the addition of a couple of sticks, I have the seeds of a fire. I blow a few deep breaths into the fireplace. Bright red heat spreads across black char, bringing life back to the near-spent fuel. When flames begin to dance, I nod with satisfaction. Not easy, but as bright as any other fire; a pleasant tingle runs up my spine as the radiating heat begins to warm my bones. It’s not easy, but it’s worth it.
Soon enough, the room is fit for life. I shuffle over to my wardrobe to meet my oldest friend. I see her every morning, pulling her curlers out as she stares daggers into my eyes. The mare in the mirror is not me. She’s too thin, too wrinkled, too old, and the silver highlights in her pink coat repulse me. I refuse to believe that I could ever look like that, or at least I refuse to acknowledge that belief. I know a hard head won’t change facts, but if those facts are going to drag me down into their bitter reality, then at least I won’t go under without a fight. The mare in the mirror is certainly more obsessive than I am; she hasn’t stopped copying me in decades.
I snort, amused by my own musings. The mare in the mirror doesn’t even crack a smile. I make faces at her, sticking out my tongue and pulling at my face, but she mocks me with a grotesque distortion of my actions. I test my voice, and it creaks and cracks like the floor of an old house, but I soon marshal it enough to call her a meanie-pants. She snorts and rolls her eyes, expecting something better, but I’m just warming up. They can’t all be spot-on. It’s not like I’d waste my best material on her anyway. I tell her a few more jokes, but she doesn’t even crack a smile.
Tough crowd.
My one-mare improv routine for the morning complete, I yawn and rub the sleep from my eyes and actually get started on my appearance.
I don’t know why I make jokes even when I’m alone in my own thoughts. Perhaps I’m so accustomed to it that I just think that way. On the other hoof, I could be an addict, and in that light, I must admit that my vice takes me much further from reality than Rainbow Dash’s does. Then again, maybe that journey isn’t as long for me.
In time, the mare in the mirror looks almost like me. Her mane rises in a curly poof, and I pretend that it’s still all pink. There’s only one thing missing. She stares at me, her eyes blank and her lips a flat line.
I think about the joy I’ve seen on the faces of my friends, their cheer and laughter. I think about how I helped it along. I think about how good it feels to make the ponies close to me happy. It was a pleasure fifty years ago, and it was a pleasure yesterday, and every smile counts. Even if I have to work harder. Even if it hurts sometimes. Even if it’s not effortless anymore. It’s what I live for, and I’m not dead yet. Every smile counts.
“I’m Pinkie Pie. I can make anypony smile.”
The mare in the mirror does for another day. It’s enough. It’s time to get to work, time to put smiles on ponies’ faces. I’m sure Twilight needs a bit of cheer, and I’m just the mare to bring it to her. And on the way, I’m sure I’ll run into plenty of my friends in Ponyville, even ones I’ve never met before. I can still get a smile out of every pony I meet. It’s not as easy as it used to be.
But it’s worth it.
I lie in wait in a dark room, pressed against the wall, utterly silent. It’s difficult for me; I’m practically shaking with excitement. I want to start cheering and dancing and shouting, but I can’t. That would ruin everything. So I hold my breath and listen to my heartbeat as the seconds drip past, falling one by one like cold molasses. I tell myself the wait will be worth it.
A beam of light lances into the room from above and illuminates a bookshelf, and an urgent hissing whisper announces that they’re almost here. My eyes open wider at that, though it matters little in the dull illumination. My ears perk up as I hear them: the cracking voice of a teenage dragon followed by the distant croak of an old mare. I can’t make out what they’re saying, but I know they’re getting closer. My smile grows.
Soon enough, they’re standing outside the door, and I can finally make out what they’re saying. The mare asks the dragon if he’s sure the princess wants them there; the Summer Sun Celebration is in Phillydelphia this year, after all. The dragon stutters and makes up some lame excuse about a book. Nopony could possibly buy it... nopony but her.
The doorknob glows purple as the door opens, and Twilight Sparkle walks into the library. I squeeze myself deeper into the shadows as she passes me, a frown barely visible on her face as she comments on the lighting. Spike follows her, closing the door behind him, plunging the room back into complete darkness.
This is it. For a few heartbeats, all is silent. Then I hit the lights, flooding the treehouse with illumination as four voices call out in unison.
“Surprise!”
Twilight’s jaw drops as she looks from Rainbow Dash peeking out from behind the basement door to Applejack on the stairs to Rarity still partially hidden behind the wooden carving in the middle of the room. And then she turns around and faces me, her eyes wide. It’s like she can’t believe what she’s seeing. I explain with the first words that come to mind, the most obvious sentence in the world.
“I threw you a party!”
She grins from ear to ear, and the joy on her face feels nearly as good as the hooves she throws around my shoulders as she embraces me. She whispers her thanks, over and over again, and I return the hug. Soon enough the others join in, five ponies and a dragon reunited. It feels right. My eyes are scrunched up tight, but I can feel them all smiling around me, and in that instant I know that no matter what else has changed—no matter what and who we’ve gained or lost—we’re still friends, and we always will be.
And that’s magic.
