My dad always told me not to hang on so tightly. But I couldn't help it; a primal instinct seemed to take over. I would squeeze my legs around the horse's muscular, chestnut torso and grip the reins so hard my fingers would go numb. The faster it galloped, the harder I would squeeze. It was a gentle, patient horse; I remember that. I named her Valkyrie. She stood there for hours while my dad first taught me how to saddle her, how to pound a shoe. I learned to show her, and during the summer my dad would drive us to shows all over the state. Later, when I was older, Valkyrie and I would embark on one of our endless rides, and she would listen attentively as I leaned forward and whispered my problems, my secrets, my desires in her pointy ear. I thought I would ride her forever.
* * *
When I heard about the accident I had just returned home from the airport . . . another business trip; the bright side is the time away makes home seem so much more so. There was a message on my machine. I hadn't so much as unpacked a suitcase as I ran back out the door, stomach churning. By the time I arrived at the hospital, his condition was stable, for whatever that was worth. I watched him through the double-pane window as he laid motionless in intensive care. Sometimes I think it might have been easier if he had never made it that far.
* * *
That was three months ago. The scenery has changed, but his condition is stable as ever. Sometimes I come here and sit in this cold, sterile hospital room for hours, staring at him and listening to the machines that compress his every breath. I also hear the steady blip of his heart monitor, but I never know if I should believe it is real. I've tried everything; sometimes I'll talk to him, spilling out my memories; other times I squeeze his hand so hard and I pray and pray, but I've been doing that less and less. I think I broke one of his fingers. His eyes are closed, but sometimes I'll open them, hoping for some flicker of life or maybe a glint of recognition. My dad used to tell me so much of a person lies behind their eyes. I'll stare at those two brown eyes, but behind them is a dull void; all I see is the glassy reflection of my own eyes, weary, almost defeated. I get so frustrated, but he is stubborn as ever, and my hope continues to dwindle. The doctors tell me that with hope and patience, there is always a chance for recovery.
* * *
Patience was never one of my virtues, especially around my father. As a young child, with no other family in the house, I was used to having his unqualified attention. Whenever circumstances made it otherwise, I would become quickly frustrated. I remember once when my dad was on the telephone. It must have been important because it seemed he had been talking for hours. I had had about enough, and it was time to bring the attention back where it belonged. He usually kept his back to me while on the phone, trying to concentrate, so I circled him slowly, and he kept rotating away from me. I hoped he would become hopelessly entangled by the telephone cord. This failed miserably, along with every other device I employed. Finally, I knew what I had to do. I stood off to his side, eyeing the fleshy part of his thigh that emerged under the hem of his shorts. I seized his thigh with my hands and bit into his leg, hard and square, like a horse.
* * *
They say the decision is mine, since I'm the closest relative. I've been waiting for three months. I don't know how long I am supposed to keep doing this. I visit every night, hoping for a sign, the fluttering of an eyelid, the wiggling of a pinky. I used to think I would see it sometimes, a ripple of movement, and I'd leap for the cord to call in the nurse. The nurse would come in and check on him, but each time she would tell me his condition was still stable. Occasionally I even sleep here; there's no one to go home to. When I'm here I dream the most vivid dreams; my memories seem to come alive, and I'll awake expecting him to do the same, but he seems to be stuck in my dreams forever.
* * *
I dreamt about late autumn, when it is cold, but not too cold to pretend that the air is still mild. This used to be my favorite time to ride, and Valkyrie would stir up leaves with every gallop, leaving a trail of red and brown in our wake. On autumn nights my dad and I used to sleep outside. We'd gather up every blanket in the house and throw down a tarp in the meadow. Snuggled under a mountain of cotton, we'd lie on our backs and stare at the night sky. Sometimes we'd talk, but just as often we would lie in a comfortable, enveloping silence. Sometimes I think we understood each other better this way. I'd fall asleep hugging his round body, dreaming we were at the opposite end of winter, looking ahead to a summer of boundless rides, be them on Valkyrie's back or in the truck as dad and I crisscrossed our way to almost every show in the state.
* * *
I have trouble reproducing the same feelings as I now look out at the barren trees of early November from the hospital window. The winter looms like a river too broad to be crossed, and spring seems so far away. I look back at my father. It's not the same body I used to nestle up to; his once-full form has become hollow, and his generous cheeks have sunken in. And it's a different kind of silence I share with him now, one void of warmth and perception. I stare at his heart monitor, pulsing up and down, and wonder what I am to do. I can't wait forever. The doctors tell me sometimes there is a point where it is all right to let go, to give up hope. They tell me I need to keep his best interests in mind.
* * *
It was a late autumn afternoon, the time of year when the last brown leaves are falling, and those that don't will be hanging lifeless on the trees until spring. I was returning with Valkyrie, having passed much of the day on horseback. I guided her down the familiar ravine just below the barn, a dark silhouette against a sun that was just above the horizon. My once awkward riding stance had disappeared by now, and I rode her in a way that could almost be called graceful. However, no matter how comfortable I felt on Valkyrie's back, I was never able to loosen my grip on the reins.
I don't know how it happened. We were about to cross the stream at the bottom of the ravine. Through my legs I could feel Valkyrie's body tense up as she prepared to spring across the water. I was looking ahead to the barn at the top of the ravine -- a light inside would indicate that my dad was still doing chores, in which case I often turned around -- when suddenly the horizon vanished. Valkyrie disappeared beneath me, and my body impacted the far side of the stream. I don't know how long I was there, but I awoke with a full body ache and the reins still in my hands. Following the reins to their origin, I found Valkyrie. She was lying on the edge of the bank with her hindquarters in the stream. He front two legs were bent at awkward angles below her chest, which was rising and falling with each shallow breath. Her big, brown eyes stared into mine, and I could see the pain behind them, begging me for help I knew I was hopeless to give.
Looking up at the barn, now surrounded by the glow of a setting sun that lay just below the horizon, I could see a light through the window. I yelled over and over for my dad. He must have heard me right away, as moments later I saw him running down the ravine towards me. When my dad arrived, he examined her and delivered the news I already knew; both her front legs were broken -- there was nothing we could do but put her down. As Dad went to get his rifle, I sat there on he bank of the stream, watching Valkryie and waiting, my hands still locked in a death grip on her reins. When he returned, Dad asked me to go up to the barn, but I couldn't do it; I couldn't let go. He gave me some time with her, but he told me we couldn't wait much longer. She was suffering, he told me, and we had to keep her best interests in mind. He said that we had no other choice. With that, he pulled me away from her. My hands were forced open, and I released the reins for the last time. I remember her eyes; I stared powerlessly into that pained brown that pleaded with me so. Then I heard the gunshot. I watched as the life drained from her eyes, giving way to a glassy, dull void that no longer showed what was behind, but rather reflected the world outside. As I stood there, I could see myself in that reflection, and it was almost as if I was looking at myself for the first time.
* * *
The decision is mine now, but I feel more helpless than ever. I thought I might be prepared for this by now, but I know that I never will be. I open his eyes. There is nothing there but my reflection, looking aged, haggard, and more like my dad than I ever remembered. Outside, the sun is setting on another day, and the cold winter is drawing ever closer. I know I will be back tomorrow, but I wonder how many more days I will be here. Time is trodding on. I stand next to his bed, squeezing his thin hand so tightly, knowing that someday I will have to let go.