I Believe in You

(Another story for the Ponemom general. Written sometime in the middle of May 2015.)

***

”Excuse me?”
>The room was quiet now; shattered.
>And the pieces needed to be picked up.
>Delicately as glass does.
>Anon – your son – stood before you.
>He looked straight at you, not to the ground, and not to you, but at you.
>The intensity of years of pent up frustration let out in an almost muffled speech that could be a sigh.
>”Mom,” he said as if he was a child phrasing a question.
>”I’m not happy.”

>Years before he is in a field running through the grass with abandon and he leaps in the air with the wind blowing his hair back even though there is no breeze.
“Anon don’t get your clothes dirty.”
>”Alright!”
>You take refuge under a shady tree – possibly out of habit as it was not particularly hot – and you watch the sky clear blue from the comfort of the light dark.
>Anon has probably already found some dirt to play in.
>There are just some things you can’t control you suppose.
>Somewhere you hear his laugh off in the rolling grasslands of Ponyville.
>Maybe he’s fighting a monster.
>You pull your book out of your bag and try to get some reading in while he’s distracted.
>And he will be distracted; this is his favorite place to play.
>It’s times like these you are glad you live here and not in a city like Canterlot or Manehattan.
>It is a book on parenting.
>Hopefully written by the experts.
>Something worries you though.
>You can’t understand a word of any of it.
>The day keeps on going and after a while Anon’s cheers quiet and eventually stop.
>You close the book.
“Anon!”
>No breeze; nothing.
>You get up and search the hills.
“Where are you?!”
>Is he hiding?
“We have to leave now!”
>Something catches the corner of your eye near a collection of pine trees.
>Behind one of the trunks retreats a pair of eyes.
“Come out here, Anon.”
>Nothing.
“I know you’re back there.”
>”I can’t.”
>You approach without saying so.
“Is something the matter? You didn’t get hurt did you?”
>”No."
“Just come out, Anon.”
>…
>He peers around the trunk shyly.
“All the way please.”
>His eyes linger somewhere and then he steps out from the trunk and begins to cry.
>Nothing seems to be wrong with him.
>Regardless you bring him close to you and pat his back and tell him it’s okay.
“Tell me what’s wrong.”
>”My clothes.”
>His clothes were indeed covered in dirt and mud; the red fabric splotched with brown looked like rust and the knees of his jeans wet.
“It’s fine gum drop. I’m not mad.”
>”But you told me not to.”
>Oh.
>That’s right.
>He disobeyed you.
>You look at his sniveled face; the red shame of his cheeks and the down curved mouth with tears and snot mixing together.
>He probably feels bad enough.
>You give him another hug and his cries soften and he squeezes you back.
>Scared too.
“I thought you had hurt yourself. There’s no need to cry over some dirty clothes gum drop.”
>”Okay.”
>You hold him until he calms and then you both head back home.
>”Momma why do my clothes have to be clean?”
>You thought it was a silly question but decided against saying so.
“Well clothes serve a special purpose for you Anon, cause you don’t have a coat like ponies do.”
>”I have a coat.”
“I mean a coat made of fur silly.”
>”Why do I need a coat?”
“They keep you warm in the winter. Clothes are just like cloth coats for you, Anon.”
>”Do you clean your coat mom?”
>Is he trying to tell you that you stink?
“Of course I do. I’d be stinky otherwise.”
>Anon looked at his hands for a while; they were patchy with brown soil and bits of grass stuck to his fingers.
>”I’m sorry I made my clothes stinky mom.”
“It’s alright. Just make sure not to do it anymore.”
>”Okay.”
>It was then you realized that Anon knew that what he did was wrong.
>That was the first time that ever happened.
>And you sighed in relief knowing that he had figured this out.
>But at the same time he never enjoyed those fields as much as he did before.

>In the present he has stopped looking at you.
>You said nothing.
>So he turned away and leaned on the counter and let his shoulders carry his weight.
“What do you mean you aren’t happy? Did I do something wrong?”
>”No, that’s not it. That could never be it.”
“Then what is it?”
>”I don’t know.”
“How could you not know?”
>He groaned, “I just don’t.”
>You approached him only to have your hooves push some glass across the tiles.
“Stay there Anon, I need to clean this up.”
>He doesn’t respond and you rush to get the broom.
>Your son isn’t happy.
>There’s a pain in your chest that makes moving hard.
>How could this have happened?
>You meet him at the table and you can notice the bags under his eyes clearly now under the low hanging kitchen light.
>His gaze is somewhere far away.
“What are you thinking about?”
>He sighed and leaned back in the chair.
>”Just wondering why I said something so stupid.”
“Anon?”
>You take a deep breath.
“You haven’t tried to hurt yourself have you?”
>”No! I’m not depressed mom, just unhappy.”
“Is there a difference?”
>”I don’t know.”
>The sky outside was a pitch black; the kind where the window just looks like a big void.
“When did these feelings start?”
>He stared again.
>Resting his forehead in his palm he closed his eyes.
>”I don’t know.”
>Come on Anon.
>How are you supposed to help if he doesn’t even know what the problem is?
“Can you please tell me something you do know?”
>”I,” he sighed, “really regret telling you that I was unhappy.”
>Those words cause you to reel back a bit and look at yourself.
>Does he really find you that useless?
>Well, what have you done so far?
>Nothing but ask him questions he doesn’t know the answer to.
>Come on, you’re his mommy.
>Don’t start getting all full of self-pity, BonBon.
>Guide your son.
>Hide the pain.

>In the past the strangest baby you’ve ever seen is in a basket lying on the floor of your house.
>It coos and shakes its bald arms when you look at it.
>You can’t help but smile when it does this.
>But that smile has a mile long list of sadness behind it.
“You want to go see mommy today?”
>The baby hums as if it understands you.
>In its eyes you see something that makes your heartbeat noticeable and warmer.
“I want to see mommy today.”
>You grab the basket handle and head out the door.
>Guide your son, Bon Bon.

“Anon you don’t have to feel bad for not knowing the reason you’re unhappy.”
>”That’s not really why I feel bad.”
“Then why is it?”
>”I just,” he swallowed, “I don’t like it when you worry about me.”
“That’s my job though.”
>Has been for a long time now.

>The trees are bare and the crispy leaves of oranges yellows and reds are crunching under your hooves as you trot.
>The baby laughs whenever the crunching becomes really loud, like stepping on a pile of them and having five or ten crack under your weight.
>A leaf drifts down into the basket and you hear it crinkle with his laughter.
>As you pass the ponies in town you try to ignore the stares and whispers.
>Hopefully that won’t be a regular thing now.
>It feels like you just got done with all that not too long ago.
>You’ll know exactly how long soon enough.
>The big black iron gate comes into view and suddenly it’s all quiet except for the leaves brushing the ground as the wind blows through.
>Anon is silent.
>The whispers and stares are gone in an instant.
>Funny how you can forget something until you see it.

“Just tell me what’s wrong. I know you can.”
>”I don’t know –“
>There was an excruciating silence.
>”I don’t know how to tell you.”
>Okay, guide.
“You don’t know how to tell me the problem that you don’t know that makes you unhappy?”
>His cheeks flushed but he didn’t retreat.
“Maybe it’s just life, Anon.”
>”Uh…”
>That didn’t come out right.
“What I mean is, maybe you aren’t experienced enough to know what the problem is. You’re still young after all.”
>You think back to that happy baby that loved the sound of the crinkling leaves.
“Anon, life isn’t going to be sweet all the time. I know that you know that, but what I mean is that there isn’t just one kind of sweetness to it.”
>He gives you a look like you’re crazy.
>And maybe you are.
“Hear me out, what have you done with your life so far?”
>He shrugged.
“Exactly. You’re twenty years old. In that time you’ve gone to school and learned how to interact with other ponies. It’s time to move on from that.”
>You look down.
“You know that I’d send you to college if I could afford it.”
>”Mom you don’t –“
“I know. But let me try to tell you about what else you could do.”
>You grabbed his hand and looked in his eyes.
>That awareness and warmth was back.
“Life is sweet in so many ways, kind of like candy bars. Look all around you and think about what you’ve done so far. Ponyville, school, interacting with the same ponies every day; it’s all been a big candy bar to eat.”
“But it’s the same candy bar you’ve been having for twenty years, Anon. And nothing stays sweet forever.”
>He looks away and begins seeing something you can’t.
>Then in the window he looks and sees his reflection staring back at him in the dark.
“It’s time to find those new sweets in life. You have all the abilities necessary to do so.”

>Back in the past you open the gate and the hinges squeal with pain.
>You trot down the rocky path and count the rows of half ovals.
>Anything to keep your mind occupied.
>You don’t want to turn away again.
>Anon utters a sweet sounding mumble.
>Hopefully he’s telling you everything is going to be okay.
>That’s twenty rows.
>Now you turn and count the stones in front of you.
>One Pony.
>Two ovals past.
>Third pony.
>You know she’s next and you shut your eyes and prepare for it.
>Fourth pony in the row.
>The grave reads: “Lyra Heartstrings: loving daughter, friend, and pony."
>"Who will guide our hearts with sweet music when you’re gone? We shall make our own songs.”
>You put the basket down and sit in the grass.
“I decided to do it. I figured you’d want that.”
>It’s been two months.
“I don’t know if that’s what you’d really want. But I’m going to do it anyway.”
>Your bottom lip starts to shake as your heartbeat begins to throb in your ears.
>It sounds like a string being plucked.
“It’s going to be hard you know. You just get to lie there while I do all the hard stuff. This last month alone has been really stressful; having to learn all this stuff I never thought I’d…”
>The breeze pushed some leaves down and your first tears started.
“I told you it was a bad idea. That you shouldn’t adopt a kid when you can barely take care of anything that isn’t your damn lyre.”
>You touched the tombstone; warm and wet.
“I thought ‘why wasn’t I enough?’ Well why wasn’t I? You didn’t have anyone else but me. We had each other and now…”
>There’s a lump in your throat that’s preventing you from talking now.
>Why?
>This wasn’t supposed to happen.
>She wasn’t supposed to die right when you wanted to be more than friends.
>When she came out to you you were always there for her if she needed to talk.
>And you were the only one she could talk to.
>She didn’t know –
>That you –
>Though your voice is shuddering and strained you felt the weight of all you hadn’t done crushing you and it was only making it harder to breathe.
“I’ll take care of him,” you sniffle. “I’ll do it. But you owe me big time. Okay?”
>Your heartbeat aches now.
>The strings from a single plucking to a melody of all that she was.
>Comprised of all her laughs and her smiles and everything that made her sweet to be around.
>That melody has never left your head.

>”Okay.”
>You hug him tighter and wipe your eyes.
“And you’ll write to me every day.”
>”Alright.”
“Okay.”
>He smiles at you.
“You owe me you know. So don’t think I’ll let you get away with any foolishness.”
>”You just want another hug.”
>He scoops you up and pulls you close.
“No, dammit I’m serious about this.”
>”Me too.”
>He squeezes you and you give up and decide to just enjoy it.

>You’re in the grass again later on.
“And it’s out of my hooves now. Hopefully he’ll stay out of trouble.”
>You smiled as you removed some grass that had grown a little high on the tombstone.
“Not like you ever did. He’s a lot smarter than you, or he at least has more common sense. Maybe that’s from me.”
>You stare at the bouquet of roses that Anon left for her and you feel your heart again.
“I’m not sure what to do now. I doubt you can help me with that.”
>You got up and sighed.
“Well I’ll see you next week anyway.”
>The melody returned; soft and with something you’ve never heard before.
>It almost sounded like.
>You rushed home as fast as you could and slammed the door behind you.
>With a pull the stairs leading to the attic fell to the floor and you rushed through the dust cloud and went up.
>It’s in here somewhere.
>You push dusty and thinning cardboard boxes out of the way without care.
>Dust makes you stop and cough a couple times but the melody still stays.
>It comes stronger from one side of the room and you head there and lift up some old bed sheets.
>Under them among the dust bunnies and the boxes lies a black case with browning latches.
>You grab it and run to your room and shut the door behind you.
>The sweat is making your every move sticky and uncomfortable and you wipe your hooves before opening the case.
>Inside it’s pristine.
>Well it better damn well be.
>That colt who gave it a “tune up” made you pay out the nose for it.
>The golden horseshoe shaped arms shine in the light coming from the window and the glint makes your heart jump.
>With a gentle swipe one of the strings rings out.
>You were possessed then.
>And the lyre was toyed and plucked and vibrated until the noon went away like a descending scale.
>Every sour note, all the swears, they paid off by the time the sun left.
>The strings laughed all evening with you as your reflection smiled in the dark window.
>You had finally played the melody and given it something it so desperately needed.
>A cadence.