Since the day that I watched
Aslan come into the world, I was completely enchanted and in love. My love for him was pure. In the last weeks of his life, despite really feeling terrible, he always greeted me and checked my pockets for
treats or licked my hand. In his
lifetime, he gave me far more than I could ever give back to him. He too, was family for me. This letter
is for him:
Wait for me...
I waited for you…and finally, on April 12, 1984, you
arrived. It took you forever to stand up and get off
the ground to nurse and I was worried that you wouldn’t do it soon enough; that
you’d get worn out before you figured out the gravity thing, but you finally
did. I beamed over you like I’d
birthed you myself and all the neighbors in our quiet country neighborhood came on foot or by horseback or by car to welcome
you to the world. I watched over you
like the most careful nanny. In my life, I was a horse girl, then a horse teenager and finally and best, a horse-woman. You were that baby, that foal, that I swore I’d always raise and keep forever. All the love in the world was around you
standing there on your long, wobbly legs.
At first you were a little shy, but I rubbed your head and ears and legs
and back and spent hours with you day after day as those long spring days ushered you into your life with me. At first, I was just another familiar
curiosity and then a quickly recognizable part of your lovely baby days of grazing by your mama's side and running for the sheer joy of stretching those amazing equine legs that are to me to this day, mysterious in their power for all their slender beauty. My friends sent me
cards of congratulations on your arrival and came to see you. I called you my baby...and you were certainly that.
You were named “Aslan” for
the lion of C.S. Lewis’ Chronicles of Narnia. Lewis’ Aslan is great in size, great in
heart. His beautiful eyes carry depth
and warm light and when you look inside of them you can only speak truth. His mane is full and golden and those who
look upon him are humbled at the sight of such regal power.
It was much, a huge name really, for such a small
foal, born too with a golden mane, to wear. And somehow now, these many years later, I
pause to consider how it was that you were able to do that…your simple eloquence, your
peaceful comfort with yourself and gentleness with all those around you. I couldn’t possibly have imagined how the 100
pound miracle that I had waited for all my life, watching as you discovered the
world, would change me. You were my steady light bringing gladness to me throughout the
paths my life took.
There were times when I went
long periods without seeing you, but you
were unfailingly there for me. A drive
down the black paved road lined with moss-hung oaks. I turn off the pavement onto the gravel path by the pasture. A whistle at the fence and a call from me brought you running
and whinnying. You never disappointed
me. Not once.
Time passed and then you
were two. When I slid over your back the
first time, you casually turned your head to look back at me as if to say “what
are you doing up there?” Our bond was like that...trusting, natural and easy.
It is January 2005. My mind is straining to send you a message as
I fly home to Florida to be near you, “don’t leave beautiful one. Not yet.
It’s not time.” You lay on a surgery table in a place I’ve never been…”I
am coming Aslan.” The constant echo of
my heart is “stay, stay, stay with me.
Please don’t go.” And I realize
too what this means: if you leave me, one more light in my life has gone
dark. Things that are precious leave…one
by one…until there are only the pictures in my mind and an ache that never
really goes away. One more passage. One
more good thing not here. Mercifully, you recovered
and I brought you to be close to me here in the North.
January 2006…you are sick
again. Gail is calling me from the barn. You are in pain. It is worse. We have to do something…trying,
trying to help you. The vet, more
x-rays, phone calls, the farrior, massages.
What else…what else can we do?
There must be something. There
must be. The gut-wrenching realization then...oh God…there isn’t. There is no
way for me to take the pain away.
It is February 17,
2006. You are standing now. The vet has nerve blocked your feet. You aren’t hurting. You have most of your favorite things right
there in front of you: peppermints,
sweet feed, apples…people you know and trust.
And I am there too, just like when you arrived. All the love
in the world is right there again. It’s
all around you. I rub your neck and kiss
your nose and thank you for being such a fine wonderful gentleman and for all
you gave me. Gail holds my shoulders and
walks me away, around the corner. I do
not want you to see me crying. This sad
place in time is indeed, the one last thing I could do to help you. Sweet one. Celebrated one. Light of my life. A part of me is going with you.
But you will never really
leave me beautiful sweet boy. You will
always live in my heart and in my mind…and that’s where I’ll always look for
you, there, in that shimmering place in memory: off the black pavement, down
the gravel road to the pasture where you will come running and whinnying as I
step out of my car door and call your name.
