BeautifulOne
Legacy Name: BeautifulOne

You were beautiful, once.

Your wood shone brightly against the sun streaming through the nursery window, your stitching was perfect, your reins draped gracefully against your neck.

Eventually, it started. Laughter rang through the halls, and the pitter-patter of itty-bitty feet could be heard coming in your direction. Inwardly, you smiled. They loved you, no, adored you. A slower pace followed, and you knew—they were being followed, probably to shorten your time together for a nap, a bath, a feeding, or who knows what else. If they noticed your horn, they didn’t mind—they loved you all the more for it.

Time marches on, and soon, you find yourself picked up by gentle hands, and carried upstairs, upstairs to a dark, gloomy place no bigger than yourself. All you remember, before they shut you in the darkness, is a mournful sigh and the words, “They grow up so fast.”

What seems like years go by, giving you time to think. Where did those happy children go, that you were thrown up there, without so much as a “Goodbye, old friend”? Would you ever see the light of day again—even in a yard or rummage sale?

Then one day, lo and behold, light enters your secret sanctuary! Footsteps make their way up the stairs, and you hear someone gasp. “I can’t believe it’s still here, Daddy,” she whispers, kneeling before you as she tenderly runs her hand along your frame. You’ve become rough over the years, paint peeling, wood threatening to give way to splinters. But your leather rein still feels like it did when you first came home—smooth and shiny as ever.

“Do you suppose your old man can still fix it up?” a voice as rough as you feel asks, chuckling.

“Daddy,” she chuckles herself, “you were my hero—I felt you could do anything. If you can take years off of it, I think—” Here she stops, and you see her move a hand to a large bulge that has made an appearance, “you can still do anything.”

He touches her hand. “Be careful now, we don’t want anything happening to you or Junior on the way down.”

He stands, offering a hand to help her up as well. “I installed a railing since you kids flew the nest,” he whispers. “Use it—use it wisely.” Taking her by the elbow, he leads her to the attic door and sees to it she’s holding on tight, as in days of old when the two of you were the best of friends. When it’s apparent she can make the trip down, he returns to you and picks you up as gently as he did when he brought you up there. When the two of you have reached the bottom, he turns in time to see her lounging on the sofa, her feet propped upon one of the armrests. “Here,” he whispers, and pushes you toward her. “I thought you might want this for Junior.”

Pushing herself to a sitting position, she gasps. “Oh, Daddy,” she whispers, feeling for herself your aged form, “you really mean it?”

“Give me a chance to fix ’er up,” he laughs, “and she’s all yours—or should I say, she’s all Junior’s.”

He takes you out to an old shed, with nothing but a single bulb for light. Sandpaper against your wood feels like heaven, scraping away your rough places until once again, you feel as smooth as before. New paint follows, as he carefully pays attention to detail, finally spraying you with a glossy finish sure to last you through the next generation!

He’s just putting the cap back on when he hears a commotion inside. “Dad,” someone cries, running out, “it—it’s time.”

Hurriedly putting the finish away, he stands and forgets all about you for the time being, running inside. Before too long, you can see her, going out to a waiting station wagon, leaning on his arm and that of another person you can only guess is her husband.

As they speed away, this gives you time to think, to complete your drying process. It’s been a long road, but you wouldn’t trade it for the world. And that roughness, that peeled paint, that only proved one thing—

You were loved, those children thought you were—

Beautiful.

You don’t even realize what’s happening, until he comes back and runs his hand over you one more time. “Yes, sir, I do believe you’re dry,” he whispers, gently carrying you inside. And not a moment too soon, for another door opens, and she comes in, followed by her husband. If your eyes could shed tears, they would, for in her arms she carries the sweetest little thing you’ve ever seen, a little angel all dressed in pink. If you could talk, you’d say:

“Hello, sweetheart, your momma and I were the best of friends. Maybe when you get a little older, you can rock on me like she used to. Would you like that?”

As if in answer, she opens her blue-green eyes, gazes at you, and gives you the biggest smile you’ve ever seen!

She’d like that—she’d like that very much.