There's just enough Zap Apple jam left in the corners of the old pot to warrant licking it clean when it cools. Not that I'll claim to be as good as Granny was, but my batches hold their own. Don't rightly believe any pony outside the family can even tell the difference after all these years. The leaves turned a few weeks ago, but the kitchen is midsummer hot with all the cooking I did today. Little Appleseed takes the last set of jars out to his mother at the stand. I stretch once more, popping my neck before trotting into the living room.
An old poetry anthology sprawls out on a couch cushion. I nose it closed when a cold draft hits my face. The cool air smells of dead leaves, cider, and lightning. I follow the smell to the open window, and there she is. She’s staring out at the old orchards while the autumn breeze teases at her graying mane. I can tell from her thousand-yard stare that she’s having one of her little moments. They’re mostly harmless still, although I’m glad we have excuses to keep the homestead childproofed. And it still hurts a bit when she’s far off on the inside of her head. When she’s travelling through her memories or Celestia-knows-what else, and all I can do is watch. I always wonder if it’s lonely in there, but she never wants to talk about it after. It’s not too much trouble for me to handle, though. Never will be, either. No nursing home is gonna get their hooves on my Sweetie. I promised to care for her in sickness and in health all those years ago, and I swear to the Sisters that I’ve never said truer words.
‘Sides, it’s not all bad all the time. Most days she’s perfectly fine, though she tires mighty quick these days. She’s come to love the Acres just as much as the rest of us, and the relative peace and quiet does her good. We wake at sunrise, mostly outta habit, and she’ll always have that little, knowing smile as I look into her eyes and see a reflection of my love for her. Oh Luna, how that mare can smile. She used to put Pinkie to shame with the joy and energy she’d bring to every occasion, and the different, exuberant smiles she had to go with ‘em. Like the huge, warm grin that lit up the kitchen when she came back from tour to find I’d surprised her with a romantic dinner. Or its blushing, nervous cousin that’d show up the morning after when she’d tried to return the favor, perched delicately below shameful, teary eyes. And I’d sit with her in the bubbling, smoking mess of a kitchen and remind her that it was the thought that counted, but I didn’t love her for her cooking. I’d murmur little white lies about how it looked better than the time before, and we’d clean the mess together before I tried to teach her the tricks behind eggs and porridge. Or there was always her backstage smile, flushed with a gentle pride and humility that always astounded me. She was never a braggart, and even through the last years of her legendary career she fought a crippling stage fright. Nopony outside her inner circle ever saw it, but it was there. The thought that this wonderful, bright pony, this genius musician could love me of all the ponies in Equestria, that she could trust me enough to show me her insecurities and flaws... It still leaves me stutterin’ and stumblin’ like a schoolfilly from time to time.
I'm content to let her wander through whatever paths her mind is running, but there's that tension in her shoulders, that sudden attack of nervous tension. Her jaw works frantically, and a breathy, voiceless whimper catches at the back of her throat. She's fighting her way back, but I can tell she's hopelessly lost now, drowning in a river of names and faces and songs and hotel rooms. I press up to her side and nuzzle at the curve of her jaw, just like always. This time, little tremors run all along her locked neck. Her panicked eyes are burning holes into the old orchard, so it's not too hard to guess what's holding her down inside. I take a deep breath and throw her a rope, singing in her ear, soft and low.
"We are the Cutie Mark Crusaders
On a quest to find out who we are-" Her ear twitches, and I know I've got her.
"And we'll never stop our journey
Not until we have our Cutie Marks-"
She picks up the melody halfway through the first verse, and I keep it going. When she breaks out with a "very LOUD!", I slip into an easy harmony, supporting her sweet voice as each awkward couplet draws her further out of her memories. Because the songs will never leave her. That's the one thing the doctors and I agree on. They use big words and scientific studies about Unicorn Cortex Degeneration trends, but I know the truth of it. Sweetie's never been just a singer. She is a musician in the grandest sense in that she lives, loves, breathes, dreams, and needs music. It's the closest thing to her heart, and I suppose years ago I felt jealous of its exalted position. That was before I admitted how much I needed her music as well. It's a part of her that I love and cherish with the rest. It's always lurking in her beautiful laughter, in her walk, glinting in her tender gaze. It holds her steady and safe when I cannot, soothes her when I am miles away... but most importantly; from the awkward, fumbling love song I sent her all those years ago, the one that started it all, to this autumn evening, where she lets the final note ring out and nuzzles me back in silent thanks, her eyes clear and steady, music always finds a way to bring her home.
We stand for a few more minutes, tails curled together, listening as the wind carries the joyful shrieks of our grand-nephews and the latest foster-filly to make the Acres her home. I'm happy in the silence, but I feel her shift and fidget after a scant five minutes of it. I nudge her playfully and sigh with relief as her youthful giggle flies loose out of her mouth.
"I saved ya a bite o' jam in the kitchen," I say, flicking her with my tail and trotting down the stairs. She follows eagerly in a trot that melts decades. "And I'm thinkin' that after, we can take a walk t'watch the sunrise." She never talks much after an episode, but that's fine. Her smile right now gives me all the words I need.