The Little Things

by TheCrystalRing

Rating: everyone
Tags: Slice of Life, Sad, Applejack, Apple Bloom, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Tragedy, Big Macintosh
Length: 1237

It was strange, the little things they remembered.

It was strange, the little things they remembered.

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Semi-vent piece written to come to terms with recent familial deaths.

Published 2018-12-19 03:10:01 UTC
Last updated 2018-12-19 03:10:01 UTC

The Little Things

It was strange, the little things he remembered.

He remembered how he could tell when she woke up in the morning, for she would always walk over to where he slept and smooth the hair back from his face. He would pretend he was still asleep even as she gathered him up into her embrace and kissed him softly on both cheeks, before heading downstairs to prepare breakfast.

But he couldn't remember the way her coat felt against his, only that it always managed to lull him back to sleep.

He remembered how he could tell when he had been having a good day, for he would always make him a batch of his secret ambrosia recipe when she wasn't looking. He swore it would rot his teeth for how sweet it tasted, and while it was delicious, the joy he exuded was far more satisfying than any flavor.

But he couldn't remember the taste of the muggy air that always surrounded him, only that it always meant that he was working his hardest.

He remembered how he could tell when she had been having a bad day, for she would always wear a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. But whenever she saw him, the light would return to her smile and she would hug him and spin him round and round, to the point where he felt they would fly up into the sky.

But he couldn't remember the length or color of her mane, only that it always stuck up in strange places after she nuzzled him.

He remembered how he could tell when he had been caught out in the rain, for he would always be surrounded by the same scent. The faint bittersweet smell of fresh raindrops marinated with the strong sharp odor of the muddy earth coating his hooves, and although he would complain that he reeked when he joined them at the table for dinner, he would just chuckle and plop his waterlogged hat on his head instead, so that he stunk too.

But he couldn’t remember the aftershave that emanated from him, only that it meant his stubble wouldn’t scratch his face when they embraced.

He remembered how he could tell when she was ready for bed, for she would always tiptoe into his room while he was dozing. She would bring down the old music box from its shelf and would gently crank it one, two, three times. As the tinkling tune tumbled through the room, she would sing along, her voice crackly with sleepiness but still somehow soothing him back to his slumber anyways.

But he couldn’t remember the way her voice would wish him sweet dreams, only that the vowels drawled as she bid her Little Macintosh goodnight.

It was strange, the little things she remembered.

She remembered how she could tell when he woke up in the morning, for the floorboards would always creak from the moment he rolled out of bed. Three creaks to the place where he kept his hat and five to his bedroom door. She would pretend she was still asleep as fifteen creaks brought him to her bedside, and as he bent over and placed a kiss on her head before ten more creaks brought him downstairs.

But she couldn’t remember the sound of his voice, only that he always told her how much he loved her every morning.

She remembered how she could tell when she was making breakfast in the morning, for the whirlwind of scents that always arose from the kitchen below couldn’t be mistaken for anything else. The strong smell of roasted coffee, the sweet aroma of golden delicious pancakes, the harsh odor of overly cooked toast. All just the way she knew she liked it.

But she couldn’t remember the scent of her mane or coat, only that it was always able to calm her down, no matter how upset she was feeling.

She remembered how she could tell when he was about to buck a tree, for he would always tip his hat back and lick his lips before he reared onto his front legs and kicked out against the bark, releasing the torrent of apples into the wicker basket waiting below. And when he realized she was watching, he would wink and grin as he continued on his work, his smile never faltering as the day went on.

But she couldn’t remember the color or shape of his eyes, only that they always lit up and sparkled whenever he saw her.

She remembered how she could tell when she had been having a good day, for she would always make apple brown betties for a snack. The cinnamon and cloves complemented each other so beautifully that it was almost unimaginable to her that they could be apart. And the sweet, sweet taste of the apples and oats upon her tongue made her believe that she must’ve been the best cook in the world.

But she couldn’t remember the taste of her prickly pear perfume as she inhaled the sweet air, only that she always wore it every single day because she loved it so much.

She remembered how she could tell when he had been having a bad day, for he would always pick her up and hold her close in his forelegs as he settled down into the old rocking chair, slowly rocking them back and forth. His hoof would rub her back slowly, up and down and up and down and up and down… Until the moment when he thought she had fallen asleep, which was when she felt his lips press softly against her forehead as he carried her off to bed.

But she couldn’t remember how his touch felt along her coat, only how his breath would always tousle her mane as he thanked her for being his dearest Applejack.

It was strange, how few things she remembered.

She couldn’t remember her mother’s appearance, only that she was a vivacious mare who could reach in and melt the heart of anypony she met.

She couldn’t remember the way her boundless energy was slowly overcome by coughs of crimson and flashes of fever, only that it had happened shortly after she was born.

She couldn’t remember when she had to be taken away by figures cloaked in white and pink, only that her father had tried to accompany her and was refused.

She couldn’t remember the way her father tried to conceal the ragged sound of his breathing and the dark rings around his eyes, only that he paced in front of the fireplace endlessly every night.

She couldn’t remember when her grandmother found her father collapsed in the morning, hacking and heaving his lungs upon the floor, only that he too had to be taken by the white figures.

She couldn’t remember the day she woke up from her nap to her grandmother sobbing, to her sister screaming, to her brother cracking the wall with his hoof, only that she never saw her parents again.

There were a lot of things she couldn’t remember about her mother.

There were a lot of things she couldn’t remember about her father.

But as she sat surrounded by her remaining family, with the intertwining tree of apples and pears above her, Apple Bloom realized that maybe, just maybe, the little things were what mattered most.