| Sadness tinted her smile. *She wasn't really ever one,* she signed slowly, remembering. *It took the Department of Defense two months to realize that Natasha was an orphan. Her Russian family wanted nothing to do with her and so, my sister and I took her in when they sent her home. By then, she was all grown up. *I don't think she could cry, Gil; cry to any human being. The horses, the dogs...they never gave her sympathy smiles and said "It'll be alright". They just listened. I used to find her curled up in the stables with Maverick, one of our draft horses and her favorite, crying her heart out in the middle of the night. But around us two legged animals? Strong lil' Russian. Defiant. Proud. Thoughtful.* I shook my head, imagining a small Natasha, so quiet in her grief, feeling a pang in my chest. 'Even as a child, you stood tall,' I thought, draining the small white cup. 'Why?' When I signed as much, Mary smiled, pouring me another cup of tea. *Pride, as I said,* she signed. *Her father and mother were alive long enough to teach her that. Very much a lone wolf. Excelled at sports, academics, music, the arts; intimidated a lot of boys that way. Never had a boyfriend in High School. Her only friends were on whatever teams she was on.* Looking out the window, I watched Natasha hold up a spotted puppy, grinning, smudges of dirt on her jeans. *She has so much charisma,* I signed. *Why not?* Mary shook her head, silver hair reflecting the late morning sunlight. *She'd have to open up,* she reasoned. *That involves risk. Risk that she might actually love them. Risk that she'd lose them like she lost her parents. Seems that she's gotten over that.* *I had that fear too...not because of my parents but because of love lost...* *Better to have lost and loved...?* she questioned and I nodded. *Always. But...now I know that I love her...more than anything,* I admitted and began to drink, Mary's eyes softening. *If you don't mind me asking...how did you lose your hearing?* A chuckle. *Plant explosion. I was a 'Rosie' riveting this country too in 1944. But I was black and therefore, more expendable. Lost most of my hair too.* *It seems better now.* *Yes...I keep it long to remember,* she explained, drinking as well. *I've had to come a long way, had 3 things going against me; black, female, and disabled. Never saw myself as handicapped though. That's why I started this place. To help those who have no voice to help themselves.* Natasha opened the sliding glass door, nearly glowing, dirt smudges and paw prints covering her clothes. *Well, you've been taking good care of them,* she signed quickly and Mary smiled. *Glad you approve. But they always miss you when you leave,* she replied. *I miss them too. You two have fun?* *Tons,* I signed, looking at Mary, who was still smiling. *I think it's time you take city boy here on horse back,* the older woman snickered softly. *Take a walkie talkie; it's wild out there. And I made lunch on the counter; sandwiches and lemonade.* Natasha grinned, taking my hand, pulling me to my feet and grabbing the basket off of the counter. *Thanks Aunt Mary, come on Gil!* Falling out the door, I was able to sign a quick, *Thank you very much,* before I was outside, dogs surrounding the two of us. "How many are there?" I called out above the barking and the fur. "Here? Only about 30. Aunt Mary has nearly 100 dogs, all rescues," Natasha replied, standing in front of the stables. "Now which horse for you?" I chuckled. "Don't I get to pick?" A grin. "Alright, go ahead." Eyeballing over the half doors, I walked until I a horse poked it's head out, nudging me. 'Well, it seems like I've been picked,' I thought and gave the animal a pat. "I'll take him," I replied and Natasha laughed. "You mean her? That's Sirius, a 12 year old mare. Good choice," she said, opening the door and grabbing the gear. "Can you tack a horse?" Blinking, I stared at her and she grinned, kissing me on the cheek. "I'll take that as a no," Natasha chuckled and sliding the bit and bridle over the chestnut mare's head. "Tack is the term for horse gear; tacking a horse means can you put the gear on the horse correctly. Gear set wrong can cause chafing, rashes, and just plain bad temperament the whole ride." The addition of a saddle blanket and saddle were completed in no time and she handed me the reins, stepping back. "Pet her, coo her, get to know her," she instructed, going around the first wing of stables. "I'll be back." As she disappeared from view, I turned and looked at Sirius, stroking her nose. "Well, looks like it's just me and you," I said softly. The horse nickered in response. Overhead, the sky was blue, not a cloud in sight, the air light but still. Breathing in, I could smell the forest, the dog food, the hay, the musty but clean smell of the horse next to me. The coat of the horse was soft, the skin underneath warm, the reins worn leather but tough, the thin fabric of my shirt hot against my skin. And sounds? I couldn't hear anything. Nothing but the muffled sounds of dogs barking, as if they were underwater and far away. 'One day this will be set in stone,' I told myself, almost sadly. 'One day, sound will be a distant memory...' Next |