by Ann Patty
While everyone looked up to the top of this large hill for another route, I inched towards the tunnel. I was on JD and my sister on Ab. JD was leery, but relied quite heavily on steadfast Ab for direction. Horses understand the wisdom of age. My sister, an intermediate rider, was atop my Abba. I told my sis to ride him forward of us. I knew JD would hug to Ab's side, which was the case. We rode into the tunnel blind. It had a bend and after just a bit there we saw light. I called to my comrades to quit looking and come. They did so, and that day my little copper horse won golden accolades. See, my Abba, like me, had no fear of the dark—indeed, we enjoyed many full-moon night rides.
Back to my grave that was nearing perfection. Finalizing a base of soft landing dirt, I maneuvered the tractor over to Abba's back side. With the bucket blade positioned, I picked a spot to push Ab in from behind. I had to feel the spot because I could not see over the bucket blade. My 3D eyes did not help me out one bit; I just had to feel and intuit what was correct. Gently, the tractor pushed on Abba's body. He was weightless. The job seemed accomplished and it felt right, like he was in the hole. When I backed off the tractor and got down to look, my eyes feasted on a beautiful sight.
There was my golden horse in perfect sleeping position! Abba rested as he always had in his sleeping down pose: his four legs folded up under his belly; his blanket was still wrapped around him perfectly, with not one twist; he lay almost upright with his head high on a soft pillow of earth; his neck in a beautiful arch; his ears pricked forward; his head bowed forward, precisely arched in a headrest from his neckline; and his eye closed tight. Abba was sleeping in death as he had slept in life. It was incredulous, an awe-inspiring scene. Standing there, I looked to the sky and thanked the universe above. And you know what else happened?
It was right then that the heavens above smiled and shone down on their Abba. It had been cloudy, windy and blustery gray all day—typical Washington winter weather; when gray sets in, it stays. But, for that moment in time, just for Abba, the sun came out to grace his grave. The weather actually turned tropical. Heaven granted a nod to Abba for about twenty minutes. It was then that Jake again reappeared from his shop and took one last look. The look on his face was of incredulous wonder too. His head shook side to side. He too was amazed at Ab's final resting position. I said, “Can you believe it?”
Back to work I went. The mound of dirt was humongous. It had to be bladed off in sections. The bottom of the grave was deep. It was never measured, but Abba's ear tips were at least six feet lower than ground level. Once, I envisioned myself slipping the tractor out of gear and sliding back accidentally into my own grave. There would be no digging oneself out of that hole. Knowing how the law of attraction works, I soon stopped those thoughts. Soft dirt was being pushed in and around Ab's torso. When the last shovel covered up his beautiful sleeping eyes and ear tips, I really started shoveling and back-filling.
No one, nothing is going to dig Abba up. There was still a cleanup to do in my pasture that would require a big hole to make it all disappear. Three stumps, two long concrete blocks and two large culverts. And now they all had a home. But just then I remembered Ab’s bridle. It had to go with him too. So I retrieved his equestrian apparel and returned it to him, placing it upon the dirt above his head. Literally as the dirt covered Abba's head, the skies turned gray, as if the curtains were being pulled. Clouds were pressing close; darkness hovered overhead. It was timely, yet made me realize I needed to hurry up with my newfound tractor skills. One by one, the stumps, concrete blocks and culverts weighed down the grave. Dirt was poured in overhead by the tractor bucket to fill all gaps and cracks and remaining holes.
Soft dirt mounded over Abba's final resting spot. Yes, my Abba was going nowhere. As I put the final blade finish atop his grave, a thought came to me. I was pondering Jake's earlier tractor statement. Then it dawned on me that he had wanted to help with this process too. Ab was a very large part of his journey too. Of the three horses, he had a soft spot for Abba as he reminded him of our good, innocent times, which now lay in the distant past. Yes, Jake had wanted to contribute in his own way and say goodbye by building his grave. Alas, I had taken that away from him—although I did not feel bad about doing so; it was simply a passing observation.
When the job was done and the tractor put away, I grabbed a rake to smooth out extra ridges. Even my top job was the best I have ever done. As I pushed the last dirt around, Jake came to inspect. I do not like to get inside his invitations for challenge, but I reneged and asked him to contribute to Ab's burial by handing him a rake. “What do you think? Do you think Ab would be pleased?” He barely nodded approval, along with one of his habitual BUTs. People should learn to stop on a positive note. When you add the word but it's usually followed by a correction, and the penalty is all you hear. And thus he said the hole was okay for now, BUT the hole would sink, and he would have to fix and refill it. There it was. The grave was not perfect. That was all my ears heard—but I gave him his moment.
The gate for JD and Lily was unlocked as dusk fell. Yes, it had been an all-day job. And I was just the woman to do it. My body was weary. Oh, so weary. The emotions, the grave-digging exercise—all of death takes its toll. I was dead tired—pun intended. That evening after a long shower, I stood in the kitchen, lifeless.
It was then Jake announced the pain of his ordeal. He told me that he would be glad to finally sleep; that the nights leading up to today, he had not, because of what was impending. Huh? I wondered if I had missed something. I know Abba was part of his/our family. I did not and would not take that away from anyone. But Abba was my baby and my guts were screaming out with pain. Not once that entire day did Jake offer a hug, much less a shoulder to cry on.
Yet my good vet friend John did. He had given me a very long, warm, wonderful, heartfelt hug that morning. Just what I wanted and needed. In friendship we had hugged other times, but this one was for our special journey with Ab. Thank you, my dear friend John! Perhaps I judge too harshly. Jake never did know how to give comfort, so this was not the first time. And perhaps that morning, once again, I did not know how to navigate his usual dance around doom. It was hard to tell. Processing death is one thing, but the interactions of several people grieving at the same time can be a rocky road. Yes, much—too much—history was buried on that day, along with emotions that still needed to be processed.
Relapse to First Times
I went to my bed on Abba's death night and, under the full moon, I cried my eyes out and could not stop. My body collapsed in a heap of a mess. There was no fixing me this night. Sometimes there are no fixings to be had. This is the way of grief. Please, please, I begged in my thoughts, just let my body sleep come deeply—and finally it came. And so I must have slept solid, as I awoke at dawn and could not sleep again. So I began this story and did not stop until it was done. This day was Ab's day to talk and tell his story through my fingers. The purging was cathartic. It was as if Abba was helping me heal through our words.
During this time of mourning, I only accepted one call, and it was from my now very grown-up Bella. She had just read Abba's poem and called, crying, to give me her love. Bella said the poem made her remember. Yes, that was Ab's intent. And then it was perfect. My daughter's memories flooded back. Bella remembered our cart accident. She had been young, but I knew this incident was no accident leaving its mark on her. You want to know something incredible? Well, I no longer think these serendipity moments are anything but natural: Bella actually called right when I was writing about our cart accident! We reminisced, and cried, and hugged over the phone.
Now I am going to tell you another incredible first. This first morning after was hard. I went out to feed only two horses today and I cried all the way. I came back inside after a hard cry outside, with red-rimmed eyes and a runny nose. Jake was in the kitchen. He saw me come through the door. He approached me and I let him hug me. And I bawled like a baby in his arms. Oh, my God, how I cried. I could not stop. I was the biggest
, most complete mess I have ever been in throughout my entire life—and that is saying a lot, for my emotions rarely get ahead of me to be seen. But thirty years, and my firstborn was now gone. Permanently. I had always referred to Abba as my first child because he preceded my first child, and stayed through me raising my last.
I cried so hard I could not breathe. And my husband held me. I wailed out loud until I could not cry louder. And he held me. And as I wept, I felt Jake, for the first time in forever. Never had he held me before when I cried. Not when our beloved Lucy dog died. Not when her sister Doodles died. Not for any of our cats. Not when my favorite great aunt died thirty-three years prior and I sobbed myself to sleep beside him in our bed. Not when my first, then years later my second, brother(s) killed themselves. Not at any of our beloved friends' funerals, even as he hugged others. Not when my father passed over—apart from a quick pat on my back. Not ever! Why now??
I cried first for Abba, and continued it on for us. My tears would not cease. This was our first—and to become our last—hug. It came without words that our embrace was affirmation that our marriage had struggled for years too many. He did not fit me anymore, nor I him. We both knew this. Why else would he weep alongside me as well? Yes, he held me because he had his own needs. He had lost a great deal too. Together we grieved over Abba. But our grief was for our memories that we could not—would not—ever return to.
Our combined pain was unbearable. Years of wearing warrior armor to barricade these feelings finally came undone. Abba represented all that we once had been: innocence that was now lost to time. Ab was the glue that bonded us to our past. Shedding tears confirmed that our history was being buried with this horse. I mourned Ab. No two ways about that. But, the more I grieved, the more it became clear that as a couple we had strayed too far from each other. Our simple inadequate embrace seemed to acknowledge that our trail end loomed near.
And while I cried, a thousand thoughts flooded my head. My husband no longer felt right. Intimacy such as this had long passed—and truthfully had never been. My psyche was wedged in between transition spots. Evidence of the longevity of a true friend lay behind—and beneath—us, like the unknown lay before us. We had crossed a bridge that had no return. Events such as death can disrupt your life just long enough to enable you to see things crystal clear. Clearly this spot marked that my marital miseries would not cease. They were reversible, but no longer could I hold up both ends. The near end to limbo was duly noted. Admittedly, for the first time I saw myself at a crossroads. I had lost my best friend, and look what Abba did for me—for us. The realization came that there are some things you can't go back and fix.
I was in absolute wonder that it had taken thirty-five years with this man to get a hug like that. Mixed emotions ebbed and flowed. I was glad, but I was mad. I realized he needed someone to cry with and hold on to. And, I wondered if this hug was Jake's attempt at reversing my unrest with us. His propensity was to offer me humility when all else failed to bring me back. Too many questions surfaced, with no answers. Was he crying and holding on to me because he knew I was soon to go? Was he mourning as he now fully acknowledged our differences were growing too vast? Was he holding on to me in an effort to make me stay? Was he attempting to protect—preserve—our yesteryear life? Or perhaps it was because of my devastating misery, which spawned his own? I ran the gauntlet of emotions, and they all beat me up. As our two struggling souls floundered, somehow empathy intervened and found us. A deep understanding engulfed our flurry of misery and held us together. Abba's demise had served to build a temporary passage back to us. He gave us the ultimate gift; a morsel of true intimacy that had eluded our long marriage. Even if it was recovered but for a fleeting moment that ended too soon.
During intense emotional moments, it is intriguing what the universe throws at you—and, if you are listening, what you might notice. The timing of Abba's leaving made me wonder if he was kicking me down the road to sensibility. Most likely I deserved it. Abba may have done me a huge favor, lightening my load. Counting him, I had three horses. For months I had visualized shoving three horses into my extra large two-horse trailer to drive far away to a new home. In an emergency, three good buddies could fit, but not for long hauls. Now Abba would not be making the next major trailer trip with me. And, oh, how he loved to load up and go.
Last Ride
A few weeks back I groomed Abba right clean and put him in the trailer with good hay. There he was happy for the afternoon while I raked and worked the yard. He loved his trailer. After two hours, he backed himself out. His last trailer ride was in our front yard. It was perfect for him as he always loved to travel—freedom of the road some say. Well, Abba's final calling was freedom for sure.
I will admit Abba granted me some freedom as well. He gave me back my time. The long hours of our feeding rituals were quite consuming. However, I never begrudged him; I was happy to do it. I never thought I would be able to do geriatric nursing care, but the mission was accomplished. The elderly are so noble, so honest, and so purposeful, how could you not proffer the care they so deserve?
Thirty years of my best friendship had been buried. Thirty years was over half my lifetime. Abba had seen my elation and sorrow throughout my maturing years. Many a nights my forehead lay buried under his mane upon the crest of his warm neckline to smell his welcoming essence. There, in the comfort of Abba, stowed away in his barn, I could silently grieve for losses, relieve daily stresses, mourn inadequacies of circumstance, or rejoice at new challenges. Abba saw all my moods with never a wary eye. Acceptance of what was and lending his unconditional harmony, he stabilized my moods.
For the majority of years ours was a one-horse farm—although it didn't feel like it as Abba filled the seat of many. His energy was large, enough for a five-horse herd; his spirit strong, yielding, playful and responsible. Guarding over our property Abba became a namesake and a keepsake. He was honest, faithful, stoic, and kindhearted. Abba was an integral part of our family.
There were days I was envious of Abba. I wanted his wings. His freedom spurred and granted me mine, but many hurdles loomed ahead and looked insurmountable during this time. More tomorrows did continue to come. Each day pushed me towards the challenges that lay ahead. But no challenge was as great as letting Abba go. Thirty years. I cannot bury my heart again. Not like that.
And now, Abba, you can ride anywhere with us that you please. You have the ultimate wings. Fly with the wind as once upon a time you did. Without a doubt we will meet again. I know you will wait for me and I'll not be too late. Sometimes it may have seemed so because you were always ready and holding fast for me, without fault. Sometimes this life is such a bitch that I can hardly wait to join you. It makes me almost jealous of where you live tonight. But I love this place called life—as you did—so I stay.
Good night. Sweet dreams, my Abba. Thank you, my wonderful, dear, shiny copper penny. For your life. Thank you for your heart. And for giving me your wings of flight in life and in death. Thank you for raising me so I could raise my children. You taught me well. Thank you for helping me find myself, and mostly for letting me go so I can seek my true destiny. No goodbyes. Not ever. Abba, I release you. Go live in the Eden that you well deserve. Go—not only with my love, but with my heart.
Written this 29th day of January 2010. The day after.
Amended January 15, 2014
Owed 2 Ab ~ 33 & Forever Free
I bid my best friend a final farewell today.
As a firstborn child remembered, He won’t go away.
Our memories not forgotten, as I hold them near,
Just like our first encounter when we met in yesteryear.
I was the only one to enter His stall corridor that day.
He was the only one to peer out and down the aisle my way.
In those first eternal moments I bought Him sight unseen.
It was fate merging our paths with a cause and a mean.
My Dream Horse shone like a new copper penn
y,
Trimmed in a golden mane and tail He stood out among many.
Gentle, forgiving, curious, yet strong,
He challenged me to new heights and brought me along.
Like my own spirit there were times He bucked really hard,
Yet He returned to me always, where He stood over guard.