Soap Sticks…

 

 

Her dark russet hair, wiry, tickled the legs and

her boney back made sore the tiny bottoms of

sparsely clothed Butts.  She was a tough old girl

slow; bit proud of herself when I climbed on her

back, I swear that old mule would strut.

Silver hair replaced the brown around her eyes and

mouth, in her prime she pulled plows and wagons,

old Soap Sticks, a genuine mule from the south.

 

She woke at four O’clock every morning with a braying

that echoed off the nearby bluffs, like the barnyard

rooster, it was her way of telling everyone they had slept

enough.

 

Her world in those days were filled with sunshine and all

the oats that she wanted to eat, her long ears had finally

gone deaf, her sight weak.  Soap Sticks, wise, her senses

distinct, she roam familiar fields by instinct.

 

She inhabited the lazy brook in the field, nibbled on

whatever the land would yield.   Her love for children never

slowed down, when I was close to her, she would instantly

kneel to the ground.

 

Climbing on her back, holding to her rough old cropped mane,

she took me through fields of sweet sugar cane.  She would

go down into the brook letting the water tickle my feet; old

Soap Sticks on any given day would delight me with these

special treats.

 

Unafraid, I knew that she would never bring me harm, when she

tired of the ride she would slowly take me back to the barn.  It

was fall when daddy came into the kitchen to say, that old Soap

Sticks had gone away.  “Where”, I screamed, “She suffered all

night,” He said, “But early this morning she just closed her eyes and

died, she could no longer stay.

 

Daddy buried her in the pasture by that lazy little brook with water

clear and sweet, the same one where she loved to wade and tickle

my feet.  I said a prayer over the big tall mound; she would lie there

forever only a few feet under the ground.

 

I knew that Soap Sticks would no longer be old and alone, she would

roam green pastures and drink from bubbling brooks, at last, she

was truly home.  She could now hear birds sing high up in the trees,

and once again, she would be able to see; no matter how long it

takes me get to Heaven; I know Soap Sticks will know that it is me.

 

©2013.annjohnsonmurphree

 

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