//------------------------------//
// VI: Acceptance 
// Story: Six Stages of Grief 
// by mushroompone 
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I remember thinking that the whole "five stages of grief" thing was a load of hooey after my parents died.

It’s not that I wasn’t angry. Or sad. Or wanted them back.

It was that last one. That lofty goal of Acceptance.

It doesn’t ever seem possible. It feels like a distant, unreachable goal invented by some quack doctor, some shrink, to make you feel guilty for not being better already. Not going back to normal. Another clever way to torture yourself when you’re already crying so hard you’re dry heaving up the dinner you never ate and you’re laying in a sweat-stain puddle and you just feel like it would be easier to never love anyone ever again, or maybe die.

My Granny always likened it to a field of landmines. When you first start clearing a field of landmines, there’s one just about everywhere you step. Everything hurts all the time because you’re always stepping on a landmine, and that mine is blowing up the others in a horrible chain reaction, and the hurt is so constant that all you can do is sit still and hope that nothing explodes.

But time goes on. And the more landmines that blow up, the fewer there are to step on.

And soon enough, you’re crawling into bed in the evening and you realize that nothing exploded all day today. 

That’s what acceptance is, I think.

It’s not going back to normal. Because honestly, even if you clear away every last stubborn landmine, your field is still gonna be torn to hell and back. 

Acceptance is when, for a long time,  nothing explodes. And it’s only late at night, when you remember how long it’s been since your mind blew up, that you think about it until you’re crying so hard you can’t breathe.

But even then, you can recover.

I think it’s going to be a long time before Pinkie goes a day without setting off a landmine. But that’s okay, because the other thing they don’t tell you about the five stages of grief is that you’re not broken for living through them. You’re not useless until you Accept and Move On. 

You’re fine.

You’re just grieving.

And that’s allowed for as long as you need it.

Pinkie’s mane hasn’t puffed back up yet. Not really. Not the way it was. But I think she missed it, and so she’s started putting these big loose curls in it. It doesn’t bounce the way it used to, but it flows down her shoulders real nice, and it has some motion back in it. Some life. I’m sure Rarity would have better words for it than me.

Today, though, she’s left her mane pin-straight and silky smooth. No kinks or loops. Just long and heavy. Part of it is tied up in a black ribbon to match the one she’d tied around her neck.

Despite it all, she seems lighter. She walks from room to room not feeling that weight as keenly as she had the week before. Only occasionally stepping on a landmine.

Maybe it was all the distraction. This was something of a party, after all.

I don’t know that she sees it that way.

Just then, Pinkie brushes past someone, holding an empty tray. Her step is light, almost bouncy, and she catches my eye and gives me a little lopsided smile.

I smile back. I can’t muster much of one, but I try.

She says something to some fellow I’ve never seen before, then squeezes her way through the crowd to join me in the kitchen.

“I guess ponies really like my blackberry cream puffs,” she comments, a twinge of joy in the remark. “I think I’ve got way better sweet treats out there, but… well, it was my mom’s favorite, I guess.”

She catches my eye again.

I look down at the floor and chuckle nervously. “Well, then, that’s mighty sweet, I’d say.”

She seems to agree. Something in the flourish she adds to her motion as she produces another ready-made tray from the fridge. It makes my heart skip a beat.

Pinkie pulls the aluminum foil off the tray and crumples it into a ball. She’s just about to swing back into the heart of the wake when she looks down at the cream puffs and… hitches. I don’t know exactly how to describe it. It’s just a little hiccup as she stares down at the neat rows of pastries.

“Um…” She sets the tray back down. “Jackie, would you mind taking these out for me? I think I’m gonna get some fresh air.”

I knew that look.

That was a landmine.

“Sure thing, sugar cube,” I say, reaching over her to pick up the tray. “In fact, I think I might join you. It’s getting a little stuffy in here.”

Pinkie looks at me.

“If that’s okay, a’course,” I add.

Pinkie smiles. “Yeah. That’s okay.”

I weave my way through throngs of relatives with the tray high over my head. Wakes are a funny thing--so many of the ponies here are just friends of friends, folks who don't even have the wherewithal to be sad, and yet feel guilty for being bored or uncomfortable or confused.

A few of them look my way. A lot of them don't. I spot Fluttershy sat beside Marble on an overstuffed couch, and wonder how they’re communicating at all. Guess it doesn’t matter, really.

Rainbow Dash and Twilight are crumpled together halfway up the flight of stairs. Funny how neither of them quite know what to do with themselves in a situation like this. They're just juggling food and drink, trading bites and sips of things and looking out over the crowd every now and then.

Twilight catches my eye and offers a weak smile. I give her a nod. She looks back at Rainbow.

Rarity is sticking by Maud, their odd little friendship bubbling up now as they chatter about… I dunno. Rocks, I guess. I still can’t read Maud so good, but she seems engaged, at least. Distracted.

That's pretty nice, I think.

I eventually wind my way through all the strange ponies and slide the tray of cream puffs between two other trays of goodies Pinkie whipped up the night before. Like it was nothing. It’s like a special bonus talent of hers. Though, being honest, I think Pinkie’d find it in her to sprout wings and horn if it’d get a laugh out of someone who needed it.

She’s special like that. The rules don’t quite apply to her the way they do the rest of us.

I get the tray settled and turn around, just barely dodging a rather elderly relative who seemed to have a little trouble seeing.

“Sorry, dearie.”

“That’s alright. You be careful, now.”

I tip my hat and brush past her.

The house is still small as it always was, but it feels like a gotdang labyrinth trying to get back to the front door. After some creative hoofwork, I find myself back at the kitchen’s threshold, and decide to duck out the side.

The screen door claps softly behind me.

Pinkie is standing by the banister. She has one forehoof up on the rail, running it gently back and forth as she looks out over the farm towards the woods. She looks back over her shoulder at me.

“Howdy,” she says.

“Hey now,” I say. “That’s my thing.”

She smiles at that. Pats the rail beside her.

I pull my hat off my head and sidle up against her. The summer sun, at its peak, warms the very end of my snout that sticks out from underneath the awning. I close my eyes and breathe deep. 

Smells like warm dirt out here. Familiar to any farmer, rock or apple.

I wipe my forehead clear of sweat and jam my hat back on.

“How’re you doin’?” I ask softly.

Pinkie sighs and pulls a wavy lock of her mane out of her face. She pulls it sorta straight when she does that. Pulls the wave out of it. “I’m okay,” she says. “I’m… sad.”

I nod. "It’d be weird if y’weren’t.”

“Yeah.”

"Yeah."

She’s quiet.

“How long did it take you?” she asks.

I look at her. “To—” and the question hasn’t even left my mouth before I realize what she means. “Oh.”

She gives me a look. Shame and hope in one.

“Uh… I dunno,” I say. “It ain’t that simple. I mean, I s’pose I did more’n just lay in bed before the month was out. I didn’t start talking again for a while after that. And after that, I was still mean and angry and…"

I lose the words.

It's all a mish-mash. All the stages blended up in a thin, beige mush. Its aftertaste still lingers in my mouth.

"Even now I still… I still wake up wanting my mom sometimes.”

I whisper it.

Pinkie hears it anyways. “Oh.”

I see her distant stare and suddenly my own hurt doesn't matter. I shake my head, make a little dismissive sound, and shrug loosely.

“But I guess I go most days without thinking of ‘em,” I say, quickly and casually. “And that means I go most days without missin' ‘em. I think the thing that helps is to remember the good stuff, y'know? Make an effort to stop missin' and start celebratin'."

Pinkie nods her head slowly, as if she's pulling the words apart. It's only in the silence that I realize what I said.

"I'm sorry," I say. "Sounds stupid now I've said it out loud."

She shakes her head. “Not stupid.”

"Oh, it’s what everyone says," I mutter. "You could get that advice from dang near anyone."

“Well, then, it’s stupid when they say it,” she says. “But I believe you.”

I look at her.

She looks pretty, but that’s a stupid thing to say, too.

I say it anyway. 

“You look pretty today.”

She blushes, but she doesn't smile. "I don't really think black is my color."

"Ah, who cares?" I pull my hat off my head, give it a dusting, and chuck it into a nearby rocking chair. "You're right, you'd look even nicer in blue. That don't mean you don't look nice right now."

She uses her sister's trick and disappears behind her hair.

“Jackie?”

“Yeah?”

She's quiet. Searching for the words for the very clear thought she'd had.

“Thank you."

Thank you.

For what?

For nothing and for everything.

I hardly did a thing. I stood around and laid around and fixed a table and her closet door. I changed a light bulb and planted little balls of aluminum foil in the rocks.

But I also killed a bear.

Or someone did. One of us. Both of us, maybe.

I can still feel the kickback. The ache in my shoulder.

“Aw. Shucks.” I look down. It wasn't what I'd wanted to say, but I guess it'll have to do. “Wasn’t nothin’. I’m always here for you. You’re… you’re my friend, Pinkie.”

She looks back at me, her face still all screwed up from looking out at the bright, hot fields. Then her eyes readjust to the shade, and her brows soften, and her pupils balloon to more than twice what they were as she looks at me.

And the word ‘friend’ doesn’t seem like quite enough.

“You’re my friend,” I say again, as if saying it right will fix the way it came out the first time. “And… I dunno. You’re family, too.”

Pinkie smiles. Not her usual face-splitting grin, but a genuine one nonetheless. “Did my sisters tell you about how I said I was going to marry them when I was little?”

I can’t help it. A snort sneaks out. A little laughter after that. “No, they sure didn’t,” I say. “All three of ‘em?”

“All three.” Pinkie hangs her head, partly in shame and partly to hide the embarrassed smile that twists up her face. “Yeah… it’s silly, but I wish I could go back and be like that again. There’s just so many rules when you’re a grown-up.”

I don’t say anything.

She looks up suddenly. “Not that I wanna marry my sisters!”

“I know!”

“It’s hard to explain.”

“I know.”

“I just mean—” She huffs softly. “I don’t know what I mean. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” I say.

A little breeze blows over the farm, whirls through the porch, and lifts Pinkie’s mane off her neck. It’s a warm breeze, but the motion is… something. We lean into it together.

“I think the most important thing in the world is to be with ponies who feel like family,” I say at last. 

She looks at me.

“Is that what you meant?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, see?" I nudge her gently on the shoulder, and she sways. "I knew what you were tryna say.”

Satisfied, I push away from the rail. The porch moans under my hooves as I settle my back against the banister and lean on one elbow.

Pinkie just watches. 

“That’s the point, anyway.”

She blinks. “Of what?”

“Of being with ponies,” I say. “Of… of finding ponies to be with. I dunno. It’s all to build a family, ain’t it? However that looks. Like brothers and sisters, or like friends, or like… I dunno.”

She’s quiet for a long moment.

I look into the house through the dirty kitchen window. Not much to look at in there but the table I’d fixed, and the treats Pinkie had baked resting on them. A quiet scene, but one built by the two of us.

“Like… us?” Pinkie suggests.

And I, of course, think she means the six of us. 

“Yeah. Of course. What else would we be?”

And she looks at me, and I realize that ain’t exactly what she meant.

“Or… like, us us?”

Pinkie swallows. “It’s silly.”

“Never.”

"It is."

"No, it ain't."

"It's only because you spent all this time taking care of me…" she murmurs. "I just--I just cling onto anyone who… y'know."

I do. But I pretend I don't. "Who takes care of you?"

She sighs. "Who helps. Or… or is there for me."

I nod. "Yeah. I get that."

I do.

I really do.

"Jackie?"

"Yeah?"

"Can I just be honest with you for a second?"

I give her a look.

Her face flushes. "Oh. Right."

"Go on, Pinks," I say.

She nods. "I think, um…" She trails off for a second, looking out at the farm. "I think there's a lot of parts of me that I never took the time to understand."

I raise a brow. "Oh yeah?"

"I am who I am. I've always been me," she continues. "But I think I was me so easily for so long that I almost never thought about it. Unless something… happened."

I knew what she meant by 'something'. I'd seen a something or two in the time I'd known her.

"I give myself a lot of credit for understanding other ponies, but I think I only ever understood the happy side of them." She looks down at her own hooves, turns them over, really inspects them. "I don't think I know me very well at all. Even when I'm happy. I don't know why, though."

I think about that.

I think back on all the time I've spent with Pinkie as I look at her face, and as she looks out at the farm.

She's different. Any fool can see that. Not just from before her parents disappeared, but from the first time I met her. She's… more. She's older. She's not quite as simple as she once was.

I wonder why that is.

"I couldn't say," I tell her. "I don't think there's always a 'why'. Sometimes there just is."

She nods.

She thinks about it. I think she thinks about it, at least.

"Jackie?"

"Yeah?"

"Can I be honest with you again?"

I only chuckle.

"You're really important to me."

I bite the inside of my cheek. "Well, you're really important to me, too."

"No, like--" She cuts herself off. I see her hooves curl as she tries to find the words. All she says is, "not like that." So quiet, and yet so strong. So forceful and certain.

I reach around in front of her and hook my hoof around her shoulder. Before she can say anything, I've pulled her close. She's practically sitting in front of me now.

She doesn't look at me. Her face is screwed up like she's staring into the sun but she's just staring down at the wood floor of the porch, her cheeks a blotchy pink-red from anger and embarrassment and sadness and everything other thing going on inside her.

"I know" I say. "And you're important to me, too."

"Not like--"

"I love you," I say.

She goes stiff. For a moment, too shocked to do anything at all. Then the disappointment washes over her, and she almost tries to correct me, but I get in first.

"Not like that," I say. "Not like how we all love each other. Not like how you love your sisters, or how I love my parents. A different way."

She looks at me. "How?"

I hold her gaze for a beat before I tear myself away. "I don't know any better than you do," I say. "We have a lot in common that way. Getting our lines all blurry and breaking all the rules."

She pulls away. Only slightly. Hardly felt.

My heart stops because suddenly I could be wrong. I could have read it all wrong--her sisters, too. Could have insulted her by saying that the way she loves her family is the same as the way she loves me is the same as love love is the same as--

She kisses me.

It's quick. It's scared. It's a dry, soft peck on the cheek, with lips trembling and hooves trembling and everything so uncertain and so embarrassed and just barely making it there at all.

But, even though it's all those things, it restarts my heart.

"I'm sorry."

"It's okay."

"No, it's not. I need to stop--"

"It's what I meant."

She stops.

"It's okay," I repeat, and my heart is in my throat as I say it. "It's… that's what I meant."

Her eyes are wide.

Her mane flows down her shoulders in soft waves and curls. Not the same bounce, but still with some chaos. Some originality.

She doesn't smile, but I don't think it's because she's not happy. Just blindsided.

She reaches up and grabs me. Quick. Blink of an eye, and she's squeezing me tight and I'm almost rocking backwards and tumbling off the porch.

I grab her back.

It makes me laugh. Not a funny laugh, like Pinkie usually gets. The one that sneaks out when you're happy and relieved and surprised and all you can do is laugh in little breathy bursts.

She laughs too.

It's a beautiful sound.

I hadn't realized just how much I'd missed it.