“Do carousel horses bleed, Daddy?” she asked. “Of course not, sweetie,” he replied.
Her wide blue eyes stared into his, quizzically and curious as the sound of the carousel circus music played in an endless loop. Every day, he found himself more and more amazed at how fast her seven-year old brain worked. “Why would you ask that?”, he said. “Look, over there at that white one — it looks like blood, right by his head.” His eyes scanned all the horses until he found the one she was talking about. Sure enough, it did have a red mark by its head that could be mistaken for blood. He marveled at how observant she was.
“The horses are made of wood, they can’t be hurt,” he told her. She looked like she wanted to believe him but for some reason her brain just wouldn’t let her. “His eyes look so sad, Daddy,” she said.
He took her to the carousel every Sunday. It was their special time together. They went to the carousel and the diner for blueberry pancakes. Every Sunday. It didn’t matter what time of the day it was. They always had blueberry pancakes. With whipped cream and syrup. He treasured their Sundays and often wondered how long they would have that time. When would she think it wasn’t “cool” to hang out with her dad? Would it be in two years? Three? Four? He hated to think about it.
“I want to go on the white horse today, Daddy,” she told him, snapping him out of his time-is-going-too-fast-for-me thoughts. He wondered if that white horse was always there and why she hadn’t noticed the blood-like mark on it before. “He’s new,” she continued, “he’s scared and he needs friends.” He took her hand in his and they walked up to the carousel platform.
She climbed onto the white horse and ran her tiny fingers over its “blood” spot, whispering softly to it. “It’s okay,” she said, “I won’t let them hurt you anymore.” She spoke very softly and gently. He sat beside her on a brown horse with a golden mane and listened to the circus music blaring through the speaker. He watched his daughter talking to the wooden horse with the sad eyes and the carousel began to move. He wondered where carousel horses came from. Did someone model them after real horses? Could that be the sadness in this one’s eyes that only his daughter seemed to see?
“Daddy, I think carousel horses can bleed,” she told him. “Maybe you’re right,” he replied. And, for a moment, he wondered if it were true.
MoonShine's Lunatic Ravings 