Life has progressed; it is not the same…but it has moved on. The only difference is that I have been left behind. The world has continued— clouds race one another gayly, flowers blossom and smile, and the sun gazes down warmly. With all this light, why does it feel so dark? Today’s weather seems to mirror my troubled soul.
The meadow sways as the wind rolls over it. My fingertips reach up delicately from the nest of wild grass that engulfs me. Each morning the sunrises are seamless and instantaneous, while the sunsets are exquisitely unhurried. The crisp air fills my lungs as I rise from my makeshift cradle and face the fading light of a summer’s day that is overtaken by darkness.
Sometimes I awaken with the impression that this is all a dream, a simple figment of my immense imagination, but I always come to remember that the rattle of the covered wagon, the call of hawks flying overhead looking for a snack, and the lonesome howl of a gray wolf at twilight are the symphony of my new reality. Calamitous clouds cover the sun, threatening to spill over with water droplets as I run with my arms outstretched. This is it, everything I have ever dreamt of and held in my heart! “Perfect” doesn’t do the scenery any justice…the word “idyllic” is only fitting for this countryside!
The only thing it lacks is her presence. The most heart-wrenching moment in my lifetime was bidding that final goodbye to the person I could have spent the rest of my life with. It has been almost four weeks since her passing, and each night I wake with a scream that sends my family into a panic. Mother does her best to soothe me by smoothing my hair and saying they are just nightmares, but it is no use. The uncontrollable trembling of my hands cannot be quieted with words.
I shake the thought away from my mind, trying to find happiness in watching a herd of mule deer prancing past, frightened by the passing thunder. Pa unhitches the team of horses from the wagon and ties the duo to picket lines so they can graze nearby whilst we prepare dinner. After we come to the conclusion that the storm will pass us by, leaving us untouched, I help Mother unpack the few dishes we decided to bring along, unravel the blanket to lie on the grass as the sun disappears, and gather dry twigs for the fire.
Pa brought his gun despite Mother’s detestation of weapons. Its permanent place is at the jockey box in the event he would need to fire it at any bandits or wild animals, but each day when we stop to eat, he uses it to hunt. We anxiously await the familiar sound of a gunshot ringing through the air, announcing that meat will soon be sizzling in the pan over the fire.
Anxious and inpatient, I walk around our temporary campsite barefoot, feeling the dirt between my toes. Mother constantly scoffs at the sight because of how unrefined it is—not that I take this too much to heart. After many failed attempts, along with bruises dotting my torso, I have finally mastered the skill of climbing into the wagon bed, where Mother and I spend most of the day as we travel. Besides that, the vast majority of my days are spent passing the time by reading the small dictionary that sits atop the trunk that belonged to my sister.
A couple of years ago, I would commit words to memory in the hopes that one could be used in a conversation so I would appear smarter than Florence. Looking back on the memory, it really was foolish of me to do so considering I had no clue as to what “keen,” “auspicious,” “perfidious,” or “verdant” meant. Now, it means something else to sit for hours reading the definitions; I never comprehended how important my education as a young woman was until I met the woman standing in the park in Brockschmidt waving pamphlets filled with things I had no knowledge of. I can almost hear her booming voice now, yelling for justice and attention from anyone who cared for the matter of women’s voting rights.
It seems like months have passed since we were in Brockschmidt—a city near our small town of Lorretta, Wyoming, to which we had made the strenuous journey so my sister could find a proper husband. But we were hoodwinked. No proposal was made, and our reputations were disgraced by dirty rumors. Has it truly only been nearly seven weeks since then?
After supper, it is time to hitch up the team, clear away the dishes— which will be washed once we locate a stream—and fold up the blanket. I place it where I sit at the back of the wagon bed, the wagon’s cover shading me from the sun’s rays that have emerged from the passing storm clouds.
“Pa?” My voice later rings out above the endless rattle of the wagon, which drives me to insanity, especially when the iron tires go over a rock, jolting me awake from much-needed slumber. “How ever do you know where we are located? You have told me before, but I must admit it slipped my mind from the instant you last explained it. Please, do remind me of it.” I cling to the wooden boards of the wagon bed as we hit yet another rock.
A hearty chuckle sounds at my words, and he turns to shout over his shoulder whilst driving the team. “Well, Bluebird, we have been following the tracks of the other wagons that’ve come before us on the journey westward. You also have to use the sun to your personal advantage; it rises in the east and sets west.” My eyes travel to the tracks made from wagon tires and where the fiery orb of the sun is already lowering in the sky. Out here, there are so many things that boggle my mind that I have not had the opportunity to learn before!
The remainder of the afternoon is whisked away in the breeze as we all find things to occupy our minds. I spend a good deal of time sitting at the rear of the wagon with my legs stretched out the width of the wagon bed, peeking my head out of the canvas cover and simply taking in the scenery. The mountains are already thinning away into the background, trees are becoming a rare sight, and there is no sign of civilization as far as the eye can see!
Another caravan of darkening clouds looms above, threatening to spill over. Drizzle has such a pleasant sound as it rushes from the atmosphere to the earthly soil below. Oh, how I long for the pitter-patter of a summer’s rainstorm on the roof of our house! Florence would have loved to be here traveling along with us. What fun we had journeying from Colorado. It is as if that was a lifetime away!
“Pa, why ever is this called a prairie schooner?” My eyes scan the interior of our wagon, which Pa bought before we left Lorretta. In order to afford the supplies, wagon, and two Percheron horses, we sold everything, including my two beloved cows, Sense and Sensibility. Pa has forbade me from going anywhere near the towering horses, but I at least dubbed them Cobalt and Tempest. They are both a sophisticated raven black, and even though Pa said it would be too dangerous for a little girl to ride them, it still gives me such a thrill to imagine it!
Cobalt releases a high-pitched whinny, as if he has suddenly obtained the ability to read my thoughts, and continues beating his hooves at a steady trot. A chuckle and a twitch of the reins are Pa’s only response to Cobalt’s attitude. With the wave of Pa’s hand, I am ushered to sit on the jockey box. In order to do so, I have to scramble over Mother, who has succumbed to sleep’s convincing grasp. The sun is shielded from our eyes as thunder sends the earth quaking. A temporary darkness blankets the meadows of mixed grasses, making the landscape appear as eerie as fog settling over creeping waves.
“Well, it’s said to have come from the appearance of a schooner ship with white sails that might resemble the wagon’s canvas cover. As long as we do not have any run-ins with Indians, we should make good time. Do not worry, Bluebird—you’ll learn a great heap of knowledge in school this winter,” he comments with a twinkle in his eyes.
A fire ignites in my heart, fueling an interest that otherwise would have never happened had he not mentioned it. “Oh, Pa, will I really be going to school? Why, this is better than I ever could have imagined! It has been a secret desire of mine even though Mother’s Sunday schooling has been a blessing in itself! Do you suppose we might see an Indian? How fascinating it would be to really see one, for I have only ever read about them in books. To be captivated by their painted skin, feathers from exotic birds, animal skins sewn into clothes, and predator’s claws worn as jewelry would be a true honor!”
“Indians aren’t as common here anymore, what with them being driven off their lands. Horrible thing that is, but people have a habit of fearing for the worst. I don’t know how many tribes there are nowadays, but there are quite a few in Oklahoma, Missouri, Washington, Montana. Some would shoot you down before asking if you were friend or foe.”
My eyes acutely scan the horizon as the sun lowers in the sky, as if an Indian will be standing there watching us rattle past in the wagon. “Goodness! How horrible to be treated like that when they inhabited America long before it existed! What fun it must have been before the Brits came and all of this was wilderness.” I gesture to the rolling hills, painted orange and absent of any sign of civilization. Birds caw above us as they swoop back to their nests, stray mule deer wander around looking for their herds, and the grasses sway in the small zephyr sweeping by. The heaven-touching apex of a mountain holds glittering snow reflecting rays back at me. “How wonderful it is to be older and traveling since I cannot remember much of our journey to Wyoming. Do you think I will be terribly behind in school? I shall have a horrid trepidation of that now. There is much that Mother never taught us, not that I am blaming her for lack of resources or knowledge!”
A glimmer of a fatherly smile flashes as he responds, “Our current travels are definitely different than before.” His gaze seems lost in the distance, and he tries to hide a chuckle. The moment disappears as quickly as it had materialized, and the conversation is kept afloat amongst a sea of concealed emotions. “As for school, you’ll do great, Bluebird. You might even soar above the rest of them.” Managing the reins, he shoots a playful look at me, causing a giggle to emerge at his attempted humor. The worries settle at the mercy of humor, and Pa says with a satisfied air, “This is a good camping spot for the night.” The wagon eases to a halt as he pulls back on the leather reins and then hops down from the box.
Tempest paws anxiously at the ground, awaiting the moment he will be released. I help unload the blankets, making a makeshift bed for Mother and Pa under the wagon just as Mother awakens to find us stationary and immediately locates work to be done. My conversation with Pa trails off as we each prepare different things. Mother has already begun clearing a spot for the fire by ripping out the grass, Pa ties the horses to their picket lines, and I shuffle the cargo around in the wagon to create more room.
Before long, the three-legged iron spider skillet—containing some of the grouse Pa was able to shoot before the stars arose—sits over a crackling fire. The three of us perch around the petite fire, eating the grouse along with the handful of crackers left in the tin and the trickle of water left in the canister.
Prior to her passing, Florence told me to take care of our parents, sensing that her death would be a life-altering event. Often enough, I contemplate every sentence uttered from her lips, attempting to find what role I can play in their care. I am trying, Florence, but the three of us are lost without you.
The sun bows below the horizon, its last light stretching over the mountaintops in the distance as the stars reveal a whole galaxy to me. I anxiously wait for the glorious sight of Earth’s rotation. Each heavenly body twinkles and winks as if they each know this fourteen-year-old girl gazing up at them, thinking only of her sister. The fire’s embers glow orange with hope but eventually die with the breeze. I stifle a yawn while climbing into the wagon, not bothering to change into my nightgown, for I will wear this same brown dress tomorrow. I whisper a brief prayer just as my eyelids close, whisking me away to dreamland before the tears can streak down my face.
I awake with a fright, bursts of breaths coming out in puffs as my palm presses against my pulsing heart. Why won’t my consciousness relent? Cursed am I, who must endure the torment of my own memories that haunt me and loom in my head each night!
Give it time, a soothing voice says in my ear. When my screams awake Mother, she always rushes to me, repeating, “Only time can cure the cursed memories.”. Time cannot pass quickly enough, no matter how much I distract myself with hopes of school or even our future house that awaits us, wherever our destination is! Tears pool at my eyes and blur my vision as my head tilts backwards. I pull at my blanket and wrap it around my shoulders to mimic an embrace. God, please free me from this endless torment! my mind screams.
“I cannot bear it anymore,” I mumble under my breath as another droplet trickles down my cheeks, searing my skin. “I cannot bear seeing it every night…thinking of the moment when I awoke to find every sense of familiarity gone from my life! It is as though life punishes me for wanting her here with us. Please, make it depart from my mind! Take it all away, for it cannot compare to feeling nothing at all…a different type of grief in itself, but at least it did not cause this persistent throbbing agony! She did not mean everything to the world, but she meant the world to me.” It is no use. Saying the words aloud only verifies the truth: I am broken without Florence and may never be repaired.
