Sneak Peeks by Louise Yeiser McAlpin

The Problem With Art

The sight took my breath away. I jammed on the brakes before making sure there was no one behind me, which, fortunately, there wasn’t. Finding a nearby driveway, I turned into it, backed up and drove back to the pasture, trying to get a good vantage point from which to take a picture. I had seen these horses in this pasture many times before. But I had never seen them covered with such a spectacular array of color. Usually their blankets were brown or gray. Today they were fastened to the dark brown and red horses with black understraps, showing off a flashing bright teal, a hunter green edged in pumpkin orange and a dazzling, deep purple. All this amid white spots and blazes divided by dark halter straps and black manes blowing in the autumn wind. I drove around, trying to get the best iPhone picture position. If only I had my paints, I thought. But it wouldn’t have mattered. With my oil or my water colors or a camera, I would never be able to capture the image planted in my mind of the bright, gloomy and placid, of the horses munching on the grass beneath a turbulent sky. So, after a few lame attempts, I put my iPhone back in my purse, memorized the sight and headed home. I was late anyway.

 

 

Dawn

I shook myself awake, trying to leave the dream. My pillow stuck to my cheek, wet with tears. I had forgotten Sophie had died. And then, I remembered. But it was way too close, like it happened yesterday, so I had to get up and splash water on my face.

When Winston died, Sophie sniffed all over the yard, tail and ears drooping like Eeyore's, and walked over to the front fence, where she stood, searching the sidewalk, up and down. We sat in the middle of the lawn, staring at the front gate, waiting. The next night was the Fourth of July, so we sat on the front porch, top step, side by side, with my arm around her, fireworks in surround-sound, watching to see if he would trot around the corner. But Winston never came back, and neither will my sweet Sophie.

All loss feels a little like this, the loss of a friend, the loss of a pet, the loss of a book. There's that sinking that comes with something not being right, coupled with restless waiting. I think we are waiting to stop waiting, but some waitings feel like black holes that drag on forever.