Childhood

I had waited all day, watching the crisp fall morning drift by like the leave of a grand oak fall to the earth, slow and steady. Then came the afternoon, dragging on for what seemed like years. This time of day however lacked the peace that came with the morning, instead bringing dullness within the afternoon rain clouds. The day was filled with monotony, giving any four year old the reason to believe that it would never end.

            Finally the time came; the clock struck five and in walked my father, who had also faced a monotonous and uneventful day. All the same he had promised, for days he had promised to take me riding. Despite his utter exhaustion, he dropped his jacket on the chair in the entry, turned and fallowed me through the yard and down to the barn.

            I put forth the enthusiasm and impatience that every four year old would, standing in the opening of the barn, red boots and all. He smiled at the sight of one pant leg inside and one out side of the boots I had rapidly pulled on, before racing out the door. Pulling Acey, the 16 year old mustang, out of the small patch of green serving as a pasture, he saddled up and helped me climb onto the very front of the saddle. The other horses whinnied in protest to being left behind, we paid them no mind. My father then he proceeded to climb on behind me. What I had waited for all day was finally here; I was going riding with my favorite person.

            We headed through the gate and up the hill to the top pasture at the far corner of the property. We rode for quite a distance along the road, running parallel to the fence enclosing the field. When we had gone as far as we could we began to meander through the large patch of oak trees, intertwined with black berry briers and other vegetation.

We came upon a small a-frame building on the edge of the woods. Behind the latched door facing the road, there sat only a small wood burning stove covered in dust and a small metal stool encompassed by the decade old cobwebs. Leaning forward my father placed his had parallel to the door and knocked three times. I waited, still and quiet, for the words about to pierce the air.

“Is Goldilocks home?”

It took everything within me to keep silent. My father paused for a moment, in waiting, and then turning away, he explained that she must not be home but we would try another time. As we rode off toward the house, due to darkness closing in on the dusk, I glanced back on occasion waiting for the fictional character to appear. As if a four year old would understand the concept behind a fictional person.

I ended our ride with no need for closure, but with a faith in the trust I placed with my father, content in the fact that she did in fact live there, not knowing any different and never crushed by the discovery, later, that she wasn't real. All that mattered was the fact that he kept his promise on that cool fall day. It no longer possessed dullness, but had placed a gleaming light in the heart of a four year old.