Penstrokes _

     Award-winning short story!

                             Sam

 It was a day like most others.  The sun came out. The birds sang. The grass grew. There was a cool summer breeze. Everything was the same and yet nothing would ever be the same again.  It was the day the earth stood still for one brief moment…as if to catch it’s breath.  It was the day she died. 

For some, dying is a relief, a welcome mat to a new unknown world. But that was not so for her.  She was the epitome of life. Jubilant, effervescent, joyful.  Full of life.  She had but to walk into a room and everything would change.  Suddenly there would be laughter and sweet, girlish giggles even though she had long surpassed girlhood.  Somehow, it remained with her; a childlike adoration for all things – but most especially life and living it to its fullest. 

I guess that’s why it seems so incomprehensible, so unfathomable, that her life would come to such a sudden, bewildering end.  Still, to this day, I don’t believe we know the full truth of it. That’s why, too, every time the sun shines or the birds sing, or there’s a cool summer breeze, I think of her, her golden blond hair blowing carefree in the wind.  She’d toss her head back, run her long, slender fingers through her swirls of curls.  She’d laugh for no reason – or none known to me.  But it was a contagious sound that went to the soul.  It reminded one that they were lucky to be alive, and even luckier to be in her company. 

She was young, just twenty-three when it happened.  Her life fully ahead of her; she had such plans for her future and at the same time she had this what will be will be attitude that would be foolish or contrary if it were anyone else. But not so with Sam.  Everyone called her Sam.  Her full name was Samantha Lynn Goodbrite. She thought her name humorous and laughed at the formality of Samantha.  Sam suited her.  So, Sam it was to all who knew her, to all fortunate to come within her radiance. 

I remember that day so clearly; it is as if time stood still.  Young Blood, the Chicano hired hand on the farm came running.  Like a young buck, shirtless, brown glistening skin, long dark hair swaying with his urgent gallop.  “Mister Goodbrite, Mister Goodbrite”, he yelled, as if an anguished, wounded doe.  “Mister Goodbrite, come quick. Mister G o o d b r i t e, it’s Sammmm!  Come quick”.  He ran to the iron bell and banged it and banged it till the sound was deafening.  It was the alarm used only in the severest of emergencies, so he knew it would bring everyone out to the field. 

Mr. Goodbrite was the first to arrive, “What is it Young Blood, what’s wrong?” 

“It’s Miss Sam, sir, she’s unconscious out by Field Four, she’s bleeding”.

“Bleeding, unconscious – do you know what happened?”

    “No sir, I was out repairing the fence at the far end of the field when I saw Miss Sam’s horse run past me. I thought, where’s Sam, dropped what I was doing and ran in the direction Alcazar had come. I kept calling out to her, then yelling, then all of a sudden I saw her…she was laying on the ground with blood by her mouth and her forehead. ‘Sam, Sam’ I said, but nothing…so I started to run here to get help.”

     By then all the farm hands were there, me included, and Mrs. Goodbrite. Hysteria overcame the Misses, the rest is a blur of running, dust blowing up from boots and hoofs, sweat, grime – blood. After that there were hours that turned to days of sitting vigil in dismal hospital corridors: hissing, humming machines, tubes, bottles hanging from poles, monitors buzzing, tears, prayers, and more prayers.  

But in the end, all there was was blackness.  The saddest, dreariest, remorseless color of all the colors ever created.  I remember the coffin draped in black, the Misses in black, barely able to stand on her own; Mr. Goodbrite stood tall in his Sunday black suit, walking as if in a trance – nodding to the throng of mourners.  The whole town showed.  And everyone cried. And it rained. Not just little droplets of moisture, but torrential sheets like shards of glass. It was as if even the gods were crying. 

JB, the foreman of Goodbrite Ranch, said a few words. He’s been part of the family for some forty years. “God, our Angel is in your hands now, watch over her, kiss her gently on the forehead and love her for us ‘till we get there.”  There wasn’t a dry eye in the place. 

Miss Paddy, her nanny, and her mother’s nanny before her spoke next.  “It is not for us mortal beings to question God’s meanings, so dear Lord, we don’t blame you.  Forgive us for our anguish; it’s just that our hearts are breaking.  It is as if we are dying – we miss her so.  She was our Light, our Angel, our meaning for existence.  So, dear Lord, if You hear us plead why, it is not You we implore, it is the circumstance we detest.  Surely, we know if You sought our baby, You must have needed her more than we. Together we cry for our profound loss, together we shall join hands in thankfulness that she is home with her Maker.”   

Everyone stood, joined hands, and through our tears, we sang, “Beautiful Savior, oh how I love Thee…” 

For a long time, there was investigation into what might have happened.  Who saw what?  How did she get the bump on her head? Did Alcazar get spooked?  And how would an experienced rider such as she get thrown? Is there someone out there wishing harm on more unsuspecting victims? Does he or she live among us? 

In the end, there would be no answers: just life going on. Going on without Sam.  But then one day, not too long after we buried her, we discovered Alcazar’s girth was growing.  She was going to give birth.  When Alcazar’s gestation period came to an end, it was Alcazar that broke loose and ran to the field that she and Sam adored.  And she gave birth. Slid from her innards a new life, wet and squirming to stand on her own. She threw her head back and whinnied as if she were giggling out loud.  I know this because I was there. 

We named her Sam.  

She grew strong and sleek and she was fast.  Mighty fast.  Like lightning.  She’d romp and play with mischievous intent, she’d tease with almost a human quality, and I swear she’d giggle. Her instincts were sharp and precise.  She knew whom she liked and whom she didn’t at first sight.  Of course, she loved JB, adored the Misses, and followed Mr. Goodbrite nearly everywhere he went.  No, she wasn’t our Sam, the one we lost and loved more than life itself, but she was as if a gift from the heavens – a Godsend for sure.  Of this, I am certain. 

And how I know for sure is this. One day, much like the day Sam died, I was working out on Field Four when I heard Sam whinny.  Not her usual carefree, full-of-fun neigh, but one fraught in fear. I grabbed my weapon, my hammer, and ran with all the speed my legs could muster.  But what I discovered upon my arrival still to this day stuns even me.  It was a shadowy haze, all white and surreal. 

 It was Sam.  

She stood above the earth below, midair, with her feet hovering just above the ground.  She smiled her beautiful sweet smile, “Don’t be afraid, I just wanted to see my beloved home – I wanted to make sure everyone was okay. Don’t fret for me; there is a reason for everything.  And a time.  I am in a grand place and watching over all my loves from not too far.  One day we shall truly be one again…until then go forth, love, marry, have babies, and sing lullabies.  Life is truly worth living…and Heaven is as Heaven is imagined.  I love you, all of you. Ride Sam into the sunset and kiss my mama for me.  Tell her I will always be with her.”  Then she was gone as if a vapor in the wind.  

  © Norma Sherry 1999

[ Home ] [ Anything Written ] [ Love Letters ] [ I'm Sorry Letter ] [ Eulogy ] [ Short Story ] [ Prose ] [ Personalized Children's Stories ]

Copyright © 2001 Norma Sherry