Moses and I couldn’t hear what was being said from where we sat, stretched out on Kathleen’s back lawn, but we had a decent view, and I knew we weren’t close enough to attract the attention of my parents, even though we could still see the class being conducted. Being my normal nosy self, I was trying to make out which kids were still hanging around and which ones had either graduated from the ninety day program or been released. I made a mental catalogue of the ones who looked like they were miserable and the ones who were making progress.
“What do you call them . . . the different colors? Aren’t there different names?” Moses asked suddenly, his eyes trained on the horses milling about the enclosure. He held a paint brush in his hands as if he’d grabbed it out of habit, and he wove it between his fingers like a drummer of a rock band twirls his drumsticks.
“There are so many colors and kinds. I mean, they’re all horses, obviously, but each color combination has a different name.” I pointed to a reddish horse in the corner. “That red one there? Merle? He’s a Sorrel, and Sackett is a Palomino. Dolly is a Bay, and Lucky is a Black.”
“A Black?”
“Yes. He’s solid black,” I answered easily.
“Well, that one’s easy enough.” Moses laughed a little.
“Yep. There are greys, blacks, browns, whites. Reba’s an Appaloosa, the greyish one with spots on her rump. We don’t like to label them by their colors in equine therapy though. And we don’t call the horses by their names. We don’t even tell the clients if the horses are male or female.”
“Why? Not politically correct?” Moses quipped. He laughed again, and I poked at him, liking that he seemed interested, even relaxed. Now if I could only get him inside the corral.
“Because you want the client to identify with the horse. You want the client to put their own labels on the horse. If a horse is exhibiting a certain behavior that you want the client to identify with, you don’t want the client to have any preconceived ideas about who or what that horse is. That horse needs to be whoever the client needs it to be.” I sounded just like my mother, and mentally patted myself on my back for being able to explain something that I’d grown up hearing but never had to put into words until now.
“That doesn’t really make any sense.”
“Okay. For instance, let’s say you have mother issues.”
Moses shot me a look that said, “Don’t go there!” So of course I did.
“Let’s say you are in a therapy session where you are discussing your feelings about your mother. And the horse starts exhibiting certain behaviors that suddenly clarify your behavior . . . or your mother’s behavior. If we’ve already labeled that horse as Gordie and said he’s a boy, you might not be able to identify your mother with that horse. In a therapy session, the only labels the horses get are the ones the client gives them.”
“So you wouldn’t want me to notice that the Palomino horse, the one with the white mane and the tan body, looks like you and that she’s always making a nuisance of herself?”
“Sackett?” I was outraged on Sackett’s behalf more than my own. “Sackett isn’t annoying! And Sackett’s a he, which just proves my point about preconceived ideas. If you knew he was a he and not a she, you wouldn’t be able to label him as Georgia and say mean things. Sackett is wise! Whenever things get really deep, you can always count on Sackett being right in the thick of things.” I heard the affront in my voice and I glowered at Moses for a moment before launching my own attack.
“And Lucky is just like you!” I said.
Moses just stared at me blandly, but I could tell he was enjoying himself. “Because he’s black?”
“No, stupid. Because he’s in love with me, and he tries to pretend every day like he doesn’t want to have anything to do with me,” I shot back.
Moses choked, and I punched him hard in the stomach, making him gasp and grab for my hands.
“So you want the clients to not pay any attention to the color of the horse. That’s not even human nature, you know.” Moses pinned my hands over my head and stared down into my flushed face. When he could see I wasn’t going to continue punching he relaxed his hold, but he looked back toward the horses and continued talking.
“Everyone always talks about being color blind. And I get that. I do. But maybe instead of being color blind, we should celebrate color, in all its shades. It kind of bugs me that we’re supposed to ignore our differences like we don’t see them, when seeing them doesn’t have to be a negative.”
I could only stare. I didn’t want to look anywhere but at him. He was so beautiful, and I loved it when he talked to me, when he suddenly became philosophical like this. I loved it so much I didn’t want to say anything. I just wanted to wait to see if he would say more. After several long minutes of silence he looked down at me and found me staring at him.
“I like your skin. I love the color of your eyes. Am I supposed to just ignore that?” he whispered, and my heart galloped to the round corral, cleared the fence, and raced back to me in giddy delight.
“You like my skin?” I breathed, stupefied.
“Yes. I do,” he admitted, and looked back at the horses. It was by far the nicest thing he’d ever said to me. And I just laid there in happy silence.
“If you had to paint me, what colors would you use?” I had to know.
“Brown, white, gold, pink, peach,” he sighed. “I’d have to experiment.”
“Will you paint me?” It was something I desperately wanted.
“No.” He sighed again.
“Why?” I tried not to be hurt.
“It’s easier to paint the things in my head than the things I see with my eyes.”
“So . . . paint me from memory.” I sat up and placed my hands over his eyes. “Here. Close your eyes. Now picture me. There. See me? I’m the Palomino filly up in your grill all the time.”
His lips twisted and I knew he wanted to laugh, but I kept my hands over his eyes. “Now keep them closed. You’re holding a paint brush in your hand already. And here’s the canvas.” I brought the hand holding the brush to my face. “Now paint.”
He dropped his hand back to his lap, holding the brush, debating. I dropped my hand from his eyes, but he kept them closed. Then he lifted his hand once more and slid the dry brush softly against my face.
“What was that?”
“My forehead.”
“What part?”
“The left side.
“And here?”
“My cheek.”