"Boy, howdy! What a lovely day," the cheery cowboy called out in the hours of the rising sun. They had begun riding the horses at six and now it was eight. The sky was a powerful autumn color, the wind chilly and soft. Nathan rode along with her and looked to her face more than a dozen times in five minutes.
"What?" she asked.
"Nothing," he laughed, and faced the sky. And to her face, once again.
"You look lovely."
"You look handsome on a horse."
"Oh, quite?" he leaned closer to her.
"Oh, quite." She kissed him, before their horses separated marginally again and they were side by side instead of together.
"I love this place," she said as he pulled the row boat. The water was crystal, and the wind soothed the midday heat. "I can just imagine- a place over on that hill," she pointed and he looked, "where we have a cozy little house- and a toddler running and giggling. And you- working at the club, tending the sheep and playing golf or writing your latest speech by the pool. Or maybe you're chasing off the marmots away from our garden."
"And what of you?"
"Wherever you want me."
"Then I imagine you're gonna be a tiger mom- making our kids work hard in school and teaching them what you teach best."
She giggled and smiled, their rowboat passing through slowly.
The banquet of flowers sat still on the counter. The vase was gold painted glass, intricate designs in black going all over it. It was long and thin most of the way, and then sprouted open, wavy and touchable. The cherry pie, it had been a gift of enjoyment but was strewn on the floor in this horror repeated. His back was aching and his clothes seemed heavy- he wanted them off and he wanted to sleep. He heard soft weeping. In a chair he saw a woman hunched over and crying. He went over and rubbed her back, kissing her forehead.
"I'm here now."
"I know," she whispered. "But not for long- again. And it happened again." again. again. again. again. again again. again. . .
He had the dream again. Every night he was sober and tired he had that same dream again- like the clockwork of the old bell tower of some forgotten town- murky and old and breaking time and time again. He dressed, walked out the speak-easy, and looked out the street. He turned his head, looked around, and back to his feet. His friend from whichever week it had been had still not comeback. Nor had any three-knocks come on his door.
There came across the street the man who owned Grandmas Attic, a local antique store in town. He was holding in his hands a large black plastic bag, and he stopped in front of Nathan.
"G'mornin'," he said.
"Morning," Nathan muttered.
"I've'a delivery for you," and he handed the vase. "T'was labeled 'H.L. Stephens'. Knew'it t'was you."
Nathan took it in hand, looking at the dust on the glass. It was not broken but was old and left alone far too much.
"Why?"
"C'est la vie," he answered.
Nathan was left on the street as the man left, and he set the vase next to him. He looked at it some time, and he looked at a hill that rose lowly in the distance. There were ravens sitting atop trees across from him, and they loomed there.
Time passed, and walking down the street came a small band of five people, a banjo and mandolin players with them. The man and woman playing guitars sang out the song into the empty street.
There, o' o'er there,
I see my lovely little mare.
O', there, o' o'er there,
I see my lovely little mare.
I gots 'er in August,
She ran around the town.
I gots 'er in August,
She was the fastest thing around.
O' o'er the winter she got so ill.
O' o'er the winter she got so ill.
I could not save 'er,
No matter how hard I tilled.
O' she had gotten so ill.
O'er there on the hill,
I see my lovely little mare.
O'er there on the hill,
I see my lovely little mare.
Now I'll wait 'till my time is through,
Fo' I knows this little mare is true,
She don' wan' me in heaven,
'Till my time is through.
So I wait and I ponder,
'Till I can see my mare o'er there,
And I will love 'er more than here,
Fo' I'll see my mare o'er there.
It was a still hour as he sat there and looked at the ravens, remaining just as all the broken dreams in his mind.
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