And then we got ponies. My father gave me to the farm manager, look after her, Mayes, outside the church, sunshine, the farmyard heavy with sloped roofs and chestnut fencing, puddles and mud, the threshing barn beyond where a boy had died falling into the blades and we were told not to play so of course we did, climbing amongst bales, deadly and the smell of dust. Another barn piled with hay, the blue pick-up truck parked in a bay beside barrels where potatoes grew, and in the corner by the church wall, the pump for tractors that my father used to fill up his Porsche, so exciting to have our own petrol. Mr Mayes to you, embarrassed I’d used the same phrase, his enormous white curly-haired dog beside him, Bumble, who howl-spoke. We got ponies. These were my weekends now, ride my bike up the lane to Bella, in from the field, muddy and soft, grooming kit, tack room, kissing her mealy nose. Do you know I’ve begun and deleted this post five times, there are so many memories flooding my brain, a sluice gate raised like the one in the stream that stopped it overflowing and flooding the cottage in winter. Last night I dreamt of the sitting room, green sofa, fireplace stacked with wood, white, long-haired rug like Bumble’s coat, but straight. I was stoned out of my mind, there was a woman with me, she had greying permed hair. She’d smoked the spliff I’d be handed ready-made by a young man who’d laughed when I’d said what is it and I’d had to clarify is it grass, charas. I’d smoked and given it to this woman who was lying on the floor and now she was crying, her arm raised to her forehead in despair, she was saying I don’t know who I am. This is what happens when you open a door, the ghosts come rushing, me, me everyone wants to be heard and seen, this need to be recognised and understood doesn’t stop at death. This is the rule when this happens: pick up the first image and go from there, they will lead you like a trail of crumbs through all of it. Grooming my pony, Mr Mayes in green quilted coat and flat cap teaching me how to do up the girth, red numnah, the reins between my fingers, riding out, we reach the Common and he flings the lead rope over Bella’s neck and takes off; this is how I learnt to ride, get yourself together quickly, no pony wants to fall or be alone.
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Life , memories, things yet to come, things dreamt. A never ending mystery. Of joy and life !!!!
Its amazing your dream about the sitting room and the woman with greying permed hair can be such a poignant reminder of how memories and experiences can resurface unexpectedly, much like the rush of ghosts you mentioned. It's fascinating how our past can weave itself into our present and influence our emotions and perceptions.