kiss a gift horse on the mouth / flogust, day 6

August

It’s a relief to watch her smile; I feel my shoulders relax as we slip back into the dynamic of easy familiarity that has blossomed between us over the last few days, a welcome oasis of gentleness amid the blood and gore. Strange to think of something new growing in the face of so much death, but each time she confesses to me, through her words or expression, the same shared bones-deep relief that I have not died yet, I feel it.

Like a glowing warmth, a pilot light in my ribcage, that gathers up the day’s shattered pieces and holds them there. Not to put them back together–I don’t know if that’s possible. But at the end of the day she’s given me enough light to look at what remains of the boy that I was, and put a name to what’s still there.

So when her cold hand takes hold of mine, I’m happy to give her warmth back.

”oh please, don’t tell me you’re a horse boy,” she jokes. ”i thought district seven was all lumber-jacks and saw-mills, not show-jumping and dressage.”

I laugh, a smile perking up my face as she climbs on to the horse’s back, sitting in front of me. ”Well, lumberjacks, horses…we’re all beasts of burden, I guess,” I parry. Actually I have no idea what dressage is, other than the kind you put on salad.

Before I can wrap my arms around her waist as I would like to, I find myself tugging at the horse’s wide rump as I try to adjust my legs, which dangle awkwardly against the creature’s folded wings. I think this thing can fly, if the form really does match the function, but the designer inside me is looking warily at the delicate bones and feathers of the wings, comparing this to the weight ratio of the muscular horse body. With two of us on here, it just doesn’t sound like a safe first-time-flyer experience. I decide not to chance it, for both our sakes.

”Hyah,” I say, prodding the horse with what I imagine to be a respectful heel-kick to the hindquarters. She–the horse–responds with a puff of air through her nose, breaking into a graceful trot through the trees.

Immediately I begin to understand why the ancient people of the Americas switched to automobiles. It’s hard to tell who or what is more uncomfortable with the lack of a proper saddle–the horse, or my bony ass. I shift my weight, wrapping my arms around Florentine, and after a few minutes, I feel more used to the rhythm of the horse’s walk jostling us back and forth.

Pressed against Florentine, tangled strands of her golden hair brushing lightly against my cheek, the forest slowly passing by around us, the sense of reality comes rushing back to me in a way that hasn’t happened all day. Fatigue creeps in with it. I begin to wonder if she would mind if I fell asleep, leaning against her back.

Instead I start to count in my head all of the things I’ve seen, the people I’ve seen evaporate into nothingness, each of their names heavy on my mind. Mom. Dad. Laurel. Revel. Thompson. Tsiuri. Little Georgie.

Good people, gone without ritual or reason. Just thinking about it makes the colors of the passing forest fade into gray, and for the first time today, or maybe ever, I get a glimpse of what it really is. A smelly old storybook full of pretty lies, pages turning brown and curling up at the edges. I hope the folks at home will see it too.

A lump forming in my throat, I wonder if Florentine has a list of her own. If, after another perfectly pre-programmed sunrise, I’ll be on it.

My chin barely touching her shoulder, I ask, ”Florentine?”

The request burns on my tongue, emerging in a whisper, barely audible. The kind of thing I could never ask out loud, lest they send a bolt of lightning to stop my heart.

”When you make it out of here, will you burn something for me?”