Kristine E. Brickey

 A line drawn in the dust The weeds had taken over my flower beds. Gone from home for only a few days, I returned to see amber waves of seeded grass stalking my poppies into submission. Coneflower and Indian Blankets, still green, but fighting for future purple and red-headed blooming were barely discernible inside weedy cages.  With a sigh, I surveyed the wreckage and headed to retrieve gloves and mini-tiller. It was already hot and it wasn’t quite eight a.m. There had been record breaking heat while I camped in Ohio, and clearly it hadn’t been easier here at home. Lugging the tiller over, I decided to first make an effort to clear some of the knee high stalks clear of the rotating blades, hoping to diminish the number of times I would need to stop, remove the pins, strip away gobs of matted stems glued with dirt, replace the blades, restart the temperamental machine, and continue. The flower beds silently begged me to hurry. Tugging at handfuls of grass made me feel like the un

Cinderella's Story, aka Cinder, officially became mine on April 25th, 2021. Since bringing her home on that lovely Sunday afternoon, there have been numerous adventures. All of them, each day we've spent together, whether in or out of the saddle, bring us to a deeper level of trust and understanding. One day, I will write our story, my personal "Cinderella's Story." For now, this small, incredibly significant story is one I absolutely have to share.      Friday, Cinder and I joined Rose and Indy for an 8.67 mile trail marking ride. Originally, I'd planned on camping but life has been crazy and too, too busy so I put myself on hold. The ride was perfect. Cinder took it all in: high winds, Milford Rd traffic, lawnmowers and deer, bicycles and dozens of campers setting up in the Kensington meadow.       After our ride, Cinder followed Indy's example and rolled in the sand before easily loading into our slant load two-horse trailer for the hour plus drive home

Some days are marked on the calendar with a sad face. Those are the days I know for certain are going to be extra grief-y, more difficult, blue days. Birthdays. Most holidays. Death-iversary.  Some days, however, hit out of the blue.                                                            My daughter is home for a visit. The other day, we were going through some boxes. Memories. Pictures. School work and report cards. Stories written in clunky kindergarten letters, phrases, and imaginations. It was lovely. I had prepped my heart for the job at hand. I was ready.  I don't do pictures anymore, but I loved sitting on the floor of my office, listening to K oohing and ahhing, laughing and sighing. Occasionally she shared a particularly interesting photo (in the olden days we actually printed pictures kids), and I was good.  I was fine. It was fine. Everything was fine. But then, K laughed. Hard. She pulled out the 'self-portrait' drawing Robbie had done, crayon, that chunky m