one lives in hope of becoming a memory
The forest had become more and more familiar as each day passed. Mother took me all over the place, showing me things that were both miraculous and intriguing. We often visited the burn scar, where we had discovered that I shared her gift of flora revival. And what Borderline hadn’t shown me, Yanhua had. He had shown me the meadow where him and mother had first met. He had shown me the den where they had fallen in love. And what they didn’t show me, Amarine’s twins and I explored together. So, by now, I think I’ve got a pretty good handle on most of Taiga, and I sometimes found myself wandering (with mother’s permission) on my own.
The air was growing cooler by the day, and I was beginning to show signs of a fuzzy winter coat growing in. Today was a warmer day, still holding on to some remnant of summer, and I had taken to wandering. The forest is alive. Birds bounce from the branches of trees high above my head. I pass by the meadow where mother and father had first met where a herd of elk graze on the grasses, still green from the warmer months. No doubt they were trying to fatten up before the winter, when food would be scarce, limited to the dead grasses that need to be sifted out from beneath the snows. Butterflies still flit from early fall flowers that bloom along the path. It all makes me feel so alive.
I am no longer afraid of the big world around me, as I’d been when I went searching for Yanhua that first day. Now I knew my way around. As I step boldly along the path, I listen to the sounds around me: birds calling back and forth, a small brook babbling just off the path, and my hooves thumping a gentle beat against the worn earth. I pass by a fallen tree with two branches that have grown into trees of their own, stretching up toward the sunlight that dapples the forest floor. I stop for a moment to admire the spectacle. Something about it, about the way life grows from death, is beautiful and amazing. The redwoods always had something new and exciting for me to find.
After a moment, I continue on my way. This isn’t aimless wandering, for there were names and faces within Taiga that I had yet to meet, and one in particular made me quite curious. Grandma had mentioned her to mother on our midnight rendezvous at the beach. They hadn’t realized that a small part of me had kept an ear tipped their way the whole time, so I was able to hear most of what they said between each other, despite the waves crashing up on the beach. Now I was curious. I was curious about the garden. What even is a garden?
Every once in a while, I stop and lift my head, as if looking to see over the understory around me, but I wasn’t looking so much as feeling. Father had taught me about my gift; empathic echoes, he had called it. It came in handy now. I reach out into the distance with it, looking for remnants of memories. I could see glimpses of happy memories from birds joyfully singing above me, but that is not what I want to see. I could see fragments from the contended elk in the nearby meadow, but those aren’t what I want to see, either. Finally, I touch on a brief flash of a happy memory from another young filly. Was this her? I wondered. I move on, holding on to the residue of the memory until I round a corner, and there she was.
“Hi!” I say, brightly. I give her a soft smile. “Are you @[Roselin]?”
The air was growing cooler by the day, and I was beginning to show signs of a fuzzy winter coat growing in. Today was a warmer day, still holding on to some remnant of summer, and I had taken to wandering. The forest is alive. Birds bounce from the branches of trees high above my head. I pass by the meadow where mother and father had first met where a herd of elk graze on the grasses, still green from the warmer months. No doubt they were trying to fatten up before the winter, when food would be scarce, limited to the dead grasses that need to be sifted out from beneath the snows. Butterflies still flit from early fall flowers that bloom along the path. It all makes me feel so alive.
I am no longer afraid of the big world around me, as I’d been when I went searching for Yanhua that first day. Now I knew my way around. As I step boldly along the path, I listen to the sounds around me: birds calling back and forth, a small brook babbling just off the path, and my hooves thumping a gentle beat against the worn earth. I pass by a fallen tree with two branches that have grown into trees of their own, stretching up toward the sunlight that dapples the forest floor. I stop for a moment to admire the spectacle. Something about it, about the way life grows from death, is beautiful and amazing. The redwoods always had something new and exciting for me to find.
After a moment, I continue on my way. This isn’t aimless wandering, for there were names and faces within Taiga that I had yet to meet, and one in particular made me quite curious. Grandma had mentioned her to mother on our midnight rendezvous at the beach. They hadn’t realized that a small part of me had kept an ear tipped their way the whole time, so I was able to hear most of what they said between each other, despite the waves crashing up on the beach. Now I was curious. I was curious about the garden. What even is a garden?
Every once in a while, I stop and lift my head, as if looking to see over the understory around me, but I wasn’t looking so much as feeling. Father had taught me about my gift; empathic echoes, he had called it. It came in handy now. I reach out into the distance with it, looking for remnants of memories. I could see glimpses of happy memories from birds joyfully singing above me, but that is not what I want to see. I could see fragments from the contended elk in the nearby meadow, but those aren’t what I want to see, either. Finally, I touch on a brief flash of a happy memory from another young filly. Was this her? I wondered. I move on, holding on to the residue of the memory until I round a corner, and there she was.
“Hi!” I say, brightly. I give her a soft smile. “Are you @[Roselin]?”
memorie
