5-year-old John Laurens stared out the window in dismay, the cherry pie his mother had made smeared all over his face.
He sucked on his thumb, a habit he’d still get to grow out of, as he watched his father tend to the dying horse.
Winnie was an old white mare and was John’s favorite. She was a very motherly creature, even towards humans. She had bore 3 colts and 2 fillies in her lifetime and was smooth and gentle when John took her out for rides
The 5-year-old stared wide-eyed as his father kneeled down, his face a stone with no expression. One of the slaves, Genevieve, carried a pail of water for the horse, though all parties could tell it was useless.
John hated Genevieve. Not because of her, no, but because she was a slave. He hated that Genevieve was here and working without pay and he hated the way his parents treated her like a misbehaving horse. He hated the very sight of her. He hated the sad eyes she had and the soft-spoken, defeated voice she carried. He wanted to give her her a hug, but he knew his mother would flip about about “germs” and “diseases” she may carry. Yet, she still made Genevieve cook dinner and make the beds.
John remembered one Christmas during family dinner, helped set the table with spoons and forks, not yet allowed to touch the knives.
He remembered setting down place mats, and when he finally set down one more, his mother had raised an eyebrow. “What are you doing?”
“Setting a place for Genny!” He said naively.
John’s mother just about slapped him. “She does not get a place. She can eat the leftovers in the barn if she’s grateful. You worry about us.”
John had promised himself that one day, Genevieve would be free and as happy as the white folks were. One day, people would still see color, but be able to appreciate it and love it.
He continued to watch his horse die.
“John?” His mother asked, walking into the room. “John, come wash your face. And I told you to stop sucking on your thu-” Eleanor cut herself off when she saw the scene laid out in front of them.
“Oh, Jacky,” she whispered, using his pet-name. Eleanor had hoped that name would catch on, but no one else used it, not even his father. It was okay, though, that was her name for him and no one else’s.
“Don’t watch that” she cooed, taking the small child into her arms. “You’re too young. Let’s go get your face cleaned up and-”
“No!” He hollered, squirming his way out of her arms. “She’s my horse, too!”
With that, he ran out of the house, Eleanor close on his heels, trying not to trip over the hoops of her skirt.
John finally made his way into the backyard where Winnie lay, her eyes sunken and his father a brick wall that no one could read.
The scenery made John want to cry, but not because it was dreary. It was quite the opposite. The sky was blue without a cloud to be seen. The grass was fresh and green as ever. He didn’t want his horse to die on such a pretty day. This wasn’t fair. The whole world should be crying for Winnie.
When he looked at Henry, the man had not a word to say.
His father always had a lesson. Whether it was how to catch a fish or how to aim a musket, there was always words of wisdom attacked to each experience.
And that was when he realized it. No person alive could accurately talk about the experience of death. This was something no one could teach him.
But as John watched the horse leave the snow-colored mare’s light leave her eyes, he bit his trembling lip and whispered his one last goodbye.
“Mama?” He asked, looking up at the brown-haired woman. “I don’t wanna die...”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
As the 27-year-old lay in the grass and listened to his enemies shout, he closed his eyes to distract him from the pain.
He was bleeding. He knew that. Blood flowed from chest to his arms to his legs. He clenched his eyes shut even tighter, his knuckles white from the pressure of clenching them.
He knew he was dying. There was no getting around that. Even if a doctor did find him in time, he’d seen enough dying soldiers to know a fatal wound when he saw it.
He said a soft prayer for his fellow men. He said a prayer for Washington and Alexander and everyone he’d made friends with along the way. He said a prayer for America and hoped that the red white and blue remained in tact 200 years from now.
He made up a year in his mind. Just a random year. What about...2019? Yes, perfect, that’s far enough in the future. Will people stand for a pledge to celebrate what we died for? Will people finally get along? Will these wars teach them something about sharing a planet? Will people finally be able to disagree and still be friends? Will people no longer be judged for the color of their skin? Will no one person no longer own another living person?
John didn’t know the answer to these questions, but he sure hoped so.
He began to think about Winnie. He began to think about Genevieve and her 3 kids and his father and his mother and his old house in the country.
“Mama...” he whispered to no one but the sky. “I think I’m ready.”
2087
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