The Snowhorse

There is something unbidden and raw in the way that memory becomes the only remaining reality. And something darker and full of betrayal when you long for memory to be all that is left. It’s funny how the details stand in sharp relief – the blue veins – almost looking like bruising – on the hands as they age. The slightly cloudy look in the eyes. The slur and hesitation in the words. It as if I can no longer see the whole person – as if he has begun to unravel, to dissipate, to disintegrate and all that is left are those small details. Maybe noticing them as separate parts lessens the pain of recognizing that the whole no longer exists – that it has frayed and faded around the edges like the tattered ends of old jeans . . .

Denim overalls were his favorite gardening attire. They were sturdy and they had that nifty pocket in the front – the perfect storage place for pens, pencils, and 3”x5” cards – an assortment of possessions that we all assumed just came with the package that was dad – the man who recognized that writing had power to make things real.

In memory I can picture several photographs overlapping of him standing in the garden, blue denim overalls, pocket full of pens, pencils, and cards – left hand resting on the handle of a hoe or shovel, the mountains in the background with their half-gone snow. And I wait, longing for that moment when he’ll turn to look, at me, to ask for my help, to say something mundane, but clear and clever and smart – tuned in.

I've stood at the side of the highway, cars and trucks buzzing past, but it was the best place to watch the snow horse. It’s after Memorial Day – and he is just now shaking off his winter coat – indication it will be a good water year – the echo of my grandfather’s farmer knowledge ricocheting around my head. And I keep waiting for the Snowhorse to finish his gallop over the peaks.

In reality the Snowhorse is merely a pattern of snow melt and snowdrift that follows the same pattern every year. In reality the Snowhorse never gallops anywhere, he just melts away, slowly losing his shape and definition until he’s a bunch of separated patches of snow – worn out reminders of November and January almost forgotten by the time he makes his exit in May and June. But somehow it’s important for him to gallop away. It seems less brittle, if he gallops, less like losing and more like victory.