DIRGE TO A SHAMROCK

         The sunrise gently shook out the somnolence of the mountains with a sweep of sunlight, spreading lavender and periwinkle across the rugged rock canvas. An eagle sailing in the sea of sky overhead called out its praise for the spectacular sight, causing a herd of horses in the pasture below to raise their heads in acknowledgement. It was finally finished. Beholding the picturesque panorama from the oaken porch of her cabin, Rosemary Aldoy knew the silent truth that it all proclaimed to her. She had built her dream, like she always swore she would. She had built it out of blood money. A faint chuckle emanated as she recalled the memory of her mother explaining to her the importance of a livelihood based on ‘blood money.’ Blood money is money you make yourself, out of hard work and diligence. It is the only money that may buy dreams. Her mother had wanted her to become a physician, and she had spent the last thirty years fulfilling that wish in Tumbleweed County Hospital. She had used her earnings to buy fifty acres of farmland and construct a cabin on it. She paid a couple grand for a lot of mustangs and a wolfdog that she christened Sherman. Rosemary sighed. Everything that was to be done has been done now.
         Akin to the senseless hesitation of a clock hand before striking a mark it has tread countless times, Rosemary’s bare feet lingered on the porch before boldly proceeding down the dirt road. As she passed the mailbox, a sudden blur of Sherman’s fur cut across her path. Out of curiosity, Rosemary trailed her wolfdog to arrive at railroad tracks that veered off the main road. The wolfdog stared down the rusty rails, but turned away when he found no trace of whatever phantom quarry he was pursuing. Though Sherman’s sharp canine eyes saw nothing, Rosemary thought she could see the shape of a shimmering pond at the end of the tracks.
In time with the disjointed fluidity of the rail segments, an afternoon long ago played out like a stop-motion film for Rosemary, rolling her mind back to almost half a century ago.
         It was the spring of 2017. The warm breeze playfully parted patterns in the glistening grasses and flowers as Rosemary scampered down a hillside trying to keep up with Wayne Rhetson’s long strides towards the woods. When they finally arrived in the forest, Rosemary threw off her stuffy slippers and set them by Wayne’s chapped cowboy boots. How strange my satin shoes look beside the worn leather of his boots, she mused. Truth be told, their initial encounter was a chance meeting that metamorphosed into an extraordinary friendship. Once, Wayne had broken the nose of a boy after learning that he harassed Rosemary. In turn, Rosemary faithfully cared for Wayne as she would a brother, even feeding him broth when he was ill.
         On this day, they had sat underneath the shade of an oak tree, watching the wind draw rippling designs on the surface of the pond before them. As the sunlight slowly sifted through the leaves above, Wayne regaled her with tales of his great-grandparents’ self-sufficient lives in the mountains of deep Appalachia. Suddenly, Wayne’s steel-blue eyes fixed on Rosemary’s with a shyness that almost shrouded the intense determination behind them.
         “You know, Rosemary, we could live like they did. You and me. I’ll be going back home soon, and if you’ll be with me, we’ll go together.”
         Good Lord, he means to take me for a wife! Rosemary realized in astonishment. In spite of the shockwave that surged through her mind, she kept a stony face when she spoke.
         “I am going to live my dream, like I have always told you I would do.” Her instinctive reply came out harsher than intended, but Rosemary had never been able to craft language to a proper lady’s standard.
         “If that is your dream, then I’ll stay here to help you build it.” Wayne earnestly promised.
Rosemary’s eyes bashfully flicked up, and then a delighted smile curved across her face upon the realization that even dreams could still be shared. From her pocket, Rosemary quietly slipped out a shamrock laminated in a square of clear tape.
         Timidly offering it to Wayne, Rosemary recited an old protection prayer, “May this guard our hopes and dreams, until the mountains recede into the sea."
         As Wayne held the four-leaf clover up to the mottled sunlight, a single ray caught it, illuminating its tiny silhouette. Suspended in the golden glow, Rosemary remembered how the shamrock resembled a small seraph bestowing her blessing.
         And so it was that fifteen year-old Rosemary Aldoy sat beneath an oak with Wayne Rhetson as dappled daylight drifted from the heavens to dance on a pair of satin slippers and cowboy boots.

         In the end, nothing ever happened between them. To her family, Rosemary and Wayne were simply too different. Not only were they of separate breeds, their pathways in life were so deviant from each other to ever cross. Rosemary could still hear her mother scolding, Do you want to bear a halfbreed child? If you’re fine with that, go ahead and live your days in a pigsty with the caveman. After school ended, Wayne took up a job at a hauling company, while Rosemary was charted for another fifteen years of schooling for a career in medicine. But even in the blank classroom walls Rosemary could sometimes see the hazy images of a girl and boy capering down a green hill in springtime. As the seasons passed, Rosemary thought that perhaps old feelings faded along with promises, and buried her sorrows in academics.
         It was on her way to school that the news came that Wayne had been killed. She was told it was a train accident. Rosemary remembered how she sobbed on the stone floor when she heard that a clover wrapped with tape was found in his pocket. Rosemary had thought that he lost or discarded it long ago. It was then that Rosemary knew that even to his death, Wayne Rhetson never forgot her.
         Pressed on by the relentless succession of memories, Rosemary’s bare feet were bloodied by the time she reached the end of the railroad. When she saw the clover patch that grew where the rails ended, a giggle almost bubbled out of the tears draining down her throat. Bending down, Rosemary dredged her fingers through the grass in vain while whispering a wish. Why couldn’t she find it? She had accomplished their dream for Wayne. She had finally completed her career for her mother. She had built the farm. She had bent to her family’s will. Rosemary realized had spent her life caught amidst a war of wills, tugged this way and that by her world. She remembered how the shamrock’s leaves spiral away from its pinnacle to make pristine petals, like independent dreams fanning out of one entity. But everything coalesced into a beautiful equilibrium in the four-leaf clover that Rosemary’s life could never achieve or find, for she had traded one of her dreams in exchange for a common life like the ordinary clovers by the railroad.
         By the time the sinking sun wiped away its golden paint from the mountains, Rosemary Aldoy accepted that she would never master crossroads like the shamrock.
         It was then that she saw it was time to find her own path amongst the clovers; perhaps she would find what she was looking for along the journey.

Four Months Afterwards:

         The old hunter staggers into Rosemary’s cabin just before dusk. Relieved he found shelter after becoming lost in the snowstorm, the weary man nearly tosses this backpack onto the quilts covering the nearby bed when he realizes that something is lying underneath. A cringe settles into the creases of his face when a tug at the blankets reveals the frozen corpse of a woman. Stumbling back out of the cold cabin, the hunter scans his surroundings for any clues that might give reason to her cause of death. An expert tracker, he quickly notices that a patch of snow sinks a little deeper than the rest. Brushing away the snow, he discovers that the grass has been torn up, as if someone conducted a meticulous search through it. After his wary eyes drift around the vicinity once more, the hunter shrugs and returns inside. He begins to dig out the radio transmitter to report his gruesome find when a speck of green against the grayness of the woman’s palm catches his eye. Moving closer, the hunter carefully removes what he thinks to be some sort of leaf. Holding it under the flashlight, he realizes that it is a shamrock, sensibly dried to preserve its green pigment. That must have been what she was searching for, the hunter thinks with a laugh. Shaking his head at the absurdity of it all, he could never imagine why anyone would want something as frivolous as that anyway.