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