The Delicate Things We Carry
The night before the death of my mother, she looked at me through her oxygen mask, with a voice barely a whisper:
“Don’t leave the soft things behind.”
I just couldn’t understand the meaning of the phrase at the moment. I thought she meant her dog, or perhaps old photographs, i.e., something physical. But when I found myself standing in front of those three weak-hearted baby goats at the livestock auction, their ribs pressing against patchy fur, her words hit me like a snap.
There was only one thing to do.
I took them.
All three.
I had no farm, no goats, and no plan. Just a backseat full of old blankets and a heart still raw with grief. But as they cuddled up next to me, their little bodies warm and trusting, I got it: that was the message she had for me.
Soft things were not things. They were moments like this—tentative, vanishing, alive.
The Goat Apartment Era
So, the living situation in my small city apartment was completely not compatible with the keeping of farm animals. Espresso, Latte, and Cappuccino (the audacious brown one, the fragile white one, and the dotted one, respectively), being young as they were, managed to turn my life into a joke of a circus in a couple of hours. They were jumping on tables, breaking lamps, and even once daring to escape from their enclosure. During a particularly shocking episode, they chewed through my favorite pair of headphones.
I hadn’t laughed so much in a long time, me for sure.
However, I found out very soon that it was important to wake up from my idealistic dreams of having domestic animals that carried out the same activities as people since it was not enough having hardwood floors and a landlord who hates animals. Everyone can do the necessary, so I rang through all rescues and farms in our area, but there were no available places. God bless her, Mrs. Harlow was the one to help me out at the end, giving away some of her space in the cage.
“There’s this guy who’s living not far from here,” she said, melancholy all over her face no more, “His name is Sam Griggs and he is the one who takes all the unwanted ones”.
Sam and the Sanctuary
Mr. Sam Griggs was the person you could describe with the phrase “tough guy” – a big man with a long beard, who looked like he grew it in the era of Richard Nixon. His farm was an open-hearth clinic for the unwanted. Three-legged dogs, blind horses, and, naturally, goats were all in heavy representation.
“Are these your first rescue?” he inquired, giving my three goats a quick look.IIt’smy first experience in having goats,” I confessed.
He laughed. “Well, you’ve got talent.”
When I separated from them, I felt like a part of me was taken away. The cries of Espresso and my tears accompanied me back home.
The Return
I failed for so long to pay a visit – I took for granted that the animals had forgotten about me. However, when I finally returned, Espresso dashed through the field as if he had been anticipating my arrival. Latte put her head on my hand, and Cappuccino, a playful character as always, became a lap cat.
Sam was standing there, smiling. “Do you see they remember you?”
I started working there as a volunteer. I was cleaning the stables, watering the horses, and getting used to the schedules of the farm. It was tough, but it made me realize I am okay to be alone.
Daisy
Next, Sam phoned to talk about a donkey he had seen.
Daisy was very old, calm, and in need of a home. I was not sure – my flat was still small and my life still unorganized. But something inside me whisper pyes’.
The donkey came with her head raised in noble silence while her gray muzzle was brushing softly against my palm. Unlike the goats, she did not oblige me to pay all my attention to her, just coexisted, and in her case, it was as constant as a regional heartbeat.
The Land
A year later, a lawyer mailed a paper to me.
Mom had bequeathed to me a land plot – only a few acres, but still sufficient.
I constructed a barn. I enclosed the meadow. I brought Daisy to my place. Besides the fur, two old sheep were added as Sam assured me that they were going to be a good match.
Now, as I get to the edge of the field and oversee the animals grazing while the day dawns, I get to feel what Mom was talking about then.
Kind things people leave to the world shouldn’t be abandoned either.
It wasn’t just giving homes to the goats or donkeys that the author’s mother meant, but this way, life repairs itself in new, unanticipated patterns. Likewise, love doesn’t end; it only changes form.
The bottom line is this:
Benevolence is not at all times simple. However, it is without fail valuable.
