Butane
That was the name
of my special horse,
the electronic one,
part of the game
my daughter and I played,
when homework was done,
played over and over
here in this room.
She was horse-mad,
horse-knowing, then;
saved her money
for riding lessons;
pondered the breeds
and drew them for hours,
over and over.
I don’t remember
much about the aim—
just that our stable
held fine mares
who ran like the wind,
whose names all rhymed
with rain, and we would
call them
across the finish line,
over and over,
a joyous refrain.
Sometimes I would urge
something against
the rules: “Run,
Butane! Go beyond!
Break free, right through
the fence! Right off the screen!”
And off she went,
off-grid, out of view,
off on her private
adventures. My coltish
girl would collapse
against me with laughter.
I would stroke her
long, red mane,
and we would talk
about life and the game
and happily ever after.
Leslie Schultz
Until this morning, I had forgotten all about mighty Butane, the only horse ever entrusted to my care. As I lit a beeswax candle with a butane lighter, though, her name came back in a flash. Though only a temporary set of pixels, (aren’t we all?) Butane was a champion.
These photos of Julia from not so long ago seem from another age–the young poet riding herd over her words, near her first Sidewalk poem; the experienced rider at the end of year show; the piano student pausing to admire a tree outside her teacher’s house. Okay, I will admit to a little nostaglia as Julia rides expertly the last laps of her college career, soon to be breaking free into her own as-yet-unscripted adventures.
Meanwhile, Tim and I are enjoying our rarer times together with Julia more than ever, and are lining this empty nest with the richness of memory and with the glitter of the new, just-beyond-the-horizon insights and adventures. LESLIE
