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 li...

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 ...

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 ...

4, 3, 2, 1...days remaining until May 16th, until it is officially twelve years since my Robbie died. I have been busier than usual this year, unsuccessfully trying to convince my heart that it's not so bad this year, this impending death-iversary, that I'm not really spinning or dwelling on that most horrible of days. I am a liar. Robbie is in my thoughts every moment, awake and asleep. I don't wake screaming like I used to, and I take that as a win. I haven't broken down in the middle of Meijer in years, another mark of progress; but the memories are swirling, stirred up and whooshing inside of me now for weeks. I used to tamp them down, made it into a cheer in fact: Tamp it down, tamp it down, waayyyyy down! Poor coping device, by the way, always ending in explosive episodes when least expected.  So, no more tamping, but definitely brushing aside, like a wispy spider web string as I walk under my red maple to check my flower beds; but even brushing can only work so l...

Wednesday began beautifully, an early trip to bring Chad back from Sparrow after his successful surgery the day before. It was a great morning, and in early afternoon the sun broke from the clouds to warm the outside air and begin drying muddy pastures. Eager to enjoy the unusually warm March weather, my steps were light as I went to my horse tack stored in the trailer, grabbed Cinder’s halter and lead, and headed to where she stood in the center paddock.  She always lets me approach, but I’ve noticed lately when I have the halter she isn’t as bright eyed and excited. I want her to come to me, for it to be a mutual connection, so I took my time, allowing her to walk her one or two steps before moving around her shoulder and urging her to draw to me. For awhile, Cinder stood at the back fence, calm, yet not ready to commit. Rather than rush her, I released a sigh, breathed away any negativity, and stood beside her watching the back fields together.  All was calm until her inqui...

     Dreams are bringing my lost ones back to me this week. It has been wonderful and difficult and each night fill my heart with soft melancholy and joy.       Sunday I spent a beautiful day with my Aunt Judy. We relaxed and chatted, laughed and remembered Robbie. She sent me home with a framed multi-photo that I'd given to my sweet Polish Grandma years ago. There are six pictures with Katie, Robbie, and I and each makes me smile even as I write this post. I wondered later if this visit was the catalyst for my dream.      That night I dreamt of Robbie. He was young, maybe 8 or 9, and we were together searching out a new martial arts gym for him, debating one over another. In the dream, Robbie was thoughtful and charming as he used his 'but Ma...' skills to convince me it was worth driving an hour each way to the gym he preferred. It was in Linden. I have no idea where these details came from, but in my dream it didn't matter. I woke, an...

          Today I am feeling rather lost and mucked down. Literally, mucked down in my pasture earlier this morning when I went out to take care of my horse and donkeys. As I pushed my feet into muck boots I could feel the angst. I shouldn’t have to wear these in February. I shouldn’t need to fight my way through sucking mud one step and the next fight to retain my balance as my skating rink pasture tries to land me on my ass.      Ironically, the inside of my barn is oozing water from around the south wall, my donkey’s stall floor seeping water from beneath, and yet…my water source, the red handled pull up never failed me yet well yielded nothing. So, insult of all universal insults, I had to tromp back through the mucky, ice slicked pasture to fill buckets with water. Normally, water inside the barn isn’t needed because my equines prefer to stay outdoors; but today, because of the warm wet downpours Mother Nature shared yesterday, I needed ...