2 Sound Memories, by Mary Jane Richmond

The sound of the bell my mother used to call us in a bit past dusk. It called us out from under the streetlight’s draw to moths and other delicious delights for swooping bats. It pulled us up from the curb where we let the darkness blanket us, forgetting that we belonged anywhere but in that moment — part of the wind and sky. The bell draws me from a dream where I’ve gone so far from home that I don’t remember who I am.

I hear the bell and I’m on my feet. A sleepwalker first, then runner, speeding toward the familiar sound as the dark, so friendly a moment before, threatens to catch me, to overtake me, to keep me. 

The bell calls me home — back to my mother and brothers and sisters. Back to the other dream of myself.


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The sound of my horse neighing joyfully from the barn. He reminds me that I am needed. He reminds me that I care for him. He reminds me that there is always a safe place to cry on his shoulder with my arms wrapped tightly around his thick crested neck.

His call reminds me of long summer days lying together under trees in the pasture. My head on his round belly as wind rushes in and out of him causing my head to rise and fall in a comforting rock that only a horse can provide. His neighs call me to bareback rides through fields and streams. Alone and in charge —I’m so small on my broad strong pony. He lets me guide him until he doesn’t want to. He goes where he desires until he decides it’s time to stop, abruptly throwing me out onto his neck, and head-first to the ground. All for his delight in trying a bright green patch of new spring grass.

I call back to him. I neigh, “I’m coming. I’m on my way. I haven’t forgotten you my friend.” I neigh like someone whose best friend is a stubborn black and white pony.