Water Holds Memory

We waited all winter for that damned pond to freeze over. Hell summer wasn't all that hot, even fall came early that year.

Leaves began to wilt and turned colors of crimson and gold by mid September but in Texas, snow never came when warranted. Our hopes started out as a sliver, a silver lining that maybe - just maybe, we could witness our little slice of heaven transform into a winter wonderland for the second time in our lifetimes.

Texas was made of heat. Scorched hearts and branding tools is what my mom always said. She was bred in Minnesota, the land of 10,000 lakes. Although she only ever went on about one specific lake in a small town called Two Harbors. Not too many horse farms there but like the rest of the residents in Texas her owners relocated us as fast as they could and the snowy lakes of yesteryear became a glint, a flicker in her memory.

I, however came to Texas in her belly. I never got to see the vast white pillowy landscapes she would run wild through in her minds eye. I was born in a pasture with the sun beating down relentlessly on my mothers back. Welcomed into the world only by her warmth, and an endless field of hay. Our caretakers were kind and thorough. We were used for simple leisurely riding but a majority of our time was spent 'free'. As free as you can assume yourself to be in this kind of situation.

One human I became particularly attached to. They called her Mary Ann, and she called me Dakotah. When Mary Ann was a small girl she came to visit my caretakers when the sun was at its highest temperatures, spending weeks at a time frolicking in the stables, cutting apples under her favorite tree and even slipping a few pieces to me. She would say to me, "Dakotah, would you like to know a secret?" "I feel like I could tell you anything, and you'd never judge a soul" "did you know that Dakotah means "friend of friends? of course you did."

Mary Ann told me all of her secrets and as a good horse does, I kept them.

Over the years Mary Ann came less and less to visit. Only arriving once or twice a year, and usually in the cooler seasons. She would say her hellos, cry on my shoulders, gather her boxes and go. My mother tried to make sense of things for me. She would often tell me a story, about the land of 10,000 lakes. More specifically two lakes, joined in body but separated by a bridge.

You see there was a time these lakes were aware of their oneness. The inhabitants of the land honored the bridge because it gave them a chance to connect and unite in purpose, allowing two sides to become one. Having met in the middle these communities found a sense of peace. One day, however, a raging storm came. Knocking down all in its sight. The bridge fell down into the middle of the lake, further separating these lands and its inhabitants into two, the animals from the villagers.

The villagers grew weary of the animals. Labeled them mischievous outsiders. They became scared of their potential and warded them off, even from far across the way.

Likewise, the animals grew suspicious of the humans; labeling them thieves, and trespassers. Warning all creatures to stay hidden in the woods, standing guard in case of an attack. The animals had never seen a hunting party but their ears couldn't fail them and they'd heard the cries of other human beings.

For a time the air felt still, the divided waters rose up and in the chill of winter froze over into one solid body. Reuniting the estranged beings. Reconnecting the spirit of the world to the village.

The horses were the first to cross over. Bold and beautiful, these gallant four legged beasts strode effortlessly over the mile wide petrified lagoon. Bowing their heads into the hands of the ones others feared. Entrusting their sovereignty to a worthy adversary.

The villagers saw then that they had nothing to fear and in an attempt to create peace they built a bridge to withstand the test of time.

This lake became known as Onalaska, the lake my mother was named after. The name originated from an old Aleutian Indian word, “Unalaska,” meaning “dwelling together harmoniously."

When Mary Ann cries on my shoulders in confusion and desperation to connect with her own people I wish I had the words to tell her the story my mother told me.

I know one day I'll have a chance. When the water goes artic, and the stars align. I'll lead her out to the pond and she'll see.

Water holds memory.