Keep trotting my darling, part une
Dearest,
I’d never met a woman like her. One that loved, sat with graces, stood poised in her downfalls (many) et sat bravely in her circumstances.
She lived. She loved. She bought. She wept et elle a enduré. Oui she did.
She was my example of never let Anastasia and Drizella steal your vision of a ball. I told her one day after I fell on the dirt on my derrière in Lyold neck, “I cannot do this trot for the life of me.”
Grazed and blazed in her Mary Janes et her ornate embellishment of threads, she held me up to a manicured posture. “I will never let you fall but if you do when my backs shall be turned around I’ll pick you up, dust you off and get you back on the saddle.”
Have you ever had riding lessons as a child? Then you relate to being shaken of a saddle only to be saved from a brutal fall. One that would damage your security as a person for life. I bet you didn’t have a person that understood the passion you felt, la passion. No matter what, you’ll fleet down, gloves on, helmet buckled, breeches dusted, you’ll get back on. Even if grand mére trumaine was the professional trooper in ring that day.
But the hard latter is that you kept going.
A fall when younger, well lets face the music shall we, continues to motivate even after an embarrassing flop. To the floors in your Bottes d’équitation.
Of course, your boots.
The ones no one understood the purchase. Rare to say because you ride a horse in the best of breeches et leather. Only to be attired to fall. Only so. But when I fell she made it to me, to tend to be, to help to put the Iron Lady, I was called to be put back on saddle. “You are an example of what faking it to make it is. Like Wall Street days darling, exactly like. Now back on after 5.”
Like they say you can jaunt all the way down the cobbled, pebbles part on the neck to the king, the Long Island sound. But first you need to saddle up. No trip no joie no success happens when one have fallen et when one gives up on oneself.
no one. On the floor I looked up to her prête self, with dirt over my gloves, and angst to my core, and I did it, I said, “no I shall not. Go, go home.”
Oh how she exhaled with a ravenous broken expectation, sipped her lattee, looked at me again, ”don’t let them lie to you, money has no power without conviction et true loyalty. Apparently Long Island knows very little, now up!”
I think at that moment it must of reminded her of how terrible her in laws had always done her, even after her many falls. But still, non I thought, non. I’ll get up when I feel like it is right. She gave me 10minutes 29 seconds, till she walked away et hot angered to her car. It was a rather fancy one. Almost like she were Daisy et her Gats were a ruin of a lunatic.
But honestly she was the wife of a Wall Street fox, but you knew it, oui?
I looked at her side as she drove off, easing the dirt to substantially a fog. I watched till she was gone.
she wasn’t a mother. But only a stranger could lift you up. Sometimes your own would let you fall, and offer very little empathy. But she left.
there isn’t no madame morale to say that pain will fall at sunset et a fall is what we shall later on do, later on in your days dearest.
So fall.
Weep if you may when the curtains are down only, dust your glove off, and watch your Scarlett be sent to her quarters.
I dare not clean her hooves that day or week or month. I dare not visit her for many days and sunsets.
I listened to her make noises from the distances, maybe she felt sorry, maybe she too was angry at the world for faltering at our heels .
I gave up that day. And I wasn’t proud. But whoever says you ought to, lied.
they lied… because my darlings trying alone will et shall never be enough.
Like ever.
I am a Shaikh, by marriage et I am Rianna by birth, I wil not quote my other names, that would be theatrical.
oh the truth aches my bones, we will continue again, oui?
Forever a storyteller,
RS
