“Church and Horse” Alex Colville 1964
The man was not old but he was weary, and had contemplated death often in recent years. That his days passed unvaried and seamless was his big trouble. His daughter whom he loved more than himself was his held blessing. The possibility he was beyond help a hypocritical person was a concern. He pitied his wife. Daily he strove to be the person she married. Unknown he was to all. He did not speak often for childhood was the last he spoke honestly with himself. The only aspect of himself the man liked he kept as a secret burning steadily inside his soul. This candle, along with love for his daughter, kept him alive.
Sleep evaded him. Night left him alone. After tucking his daughter into bed, and once his wife fell asleep, the man walked out of his house and into the nearby woods. He followed the same path each night, watched by the graceful moon. Some nights he felt such inward frustration, he walked with his eyes shut. Numerous stones and branches confused his path. The man stumbled and bled, but he never fell. He wished he would. But he never did.
He walked until reaching a weathered shed. It was the kind of structure generations of men have rested their eyes on. Inside the shed, the man lit an old butane lantern. Years fell off him in its light. His limbs lost their stiffness, and the worry lining his face smoothed. He smiled without knowing he was smiling. He rolled his shoulders for sensation’s sake. His sea anemone mind opened, and really, the man was not aware of himself at all.
He painted through the night, sucking on honey spooned from a jar he kept for this purpose. While working, he hummed a melody he sang in church as a boy. Colors, green and orange, led him to new landscapes. Gone was time, guilt, obligation, love, fear, memory. He was at home in his body. And honey pooled over and under his tongue.
Inevitably, the sun’s neutral rays fingered the wooden slats of the shed. Bird song signaled the end of one type of life, and the beginning of another. The man put away his easel, washed his brushes, twisted tight the lid of the honey jar, and blew dark his lantern. He carefully locked the shed’s door behind him. Not once did he look at the picture he spent the night painting.
Retreading the rocky path home, he muttered a prayer. His was a beautiful prayer, completely inaudible. Words to reline his face. A part of his prayer was his intention to be a better husband and father. A part of his prayer was a plea for his daughter to know only peace.
Always he cleared the trees. Always his home lit by morning sun. That his house did not leave him, as he left it, and all it kept safe was the man’s true blessing. He slipped into the kitchen through the side door. His wedding ring glinted as he turned the knob. Standing in shy light, the man took a breath, before moving on to the stove, grabbing and cracking an egg into the pan, thinking of his exquisite daughter grinning with her mouth full of scrambled eggs.
Riley Quinn Scott is a writer based in Los Angeles.
High Horse 