During the poverty, house bound, and bed ridden years of survival in the 1990’s and early 2000’s, I’d sold my saddle, tack, and treasured silver inlaid show halter along with about everything else I owned. I’d numbed myself to feeling anything at all about that time of my life…. after all, I’d left that world long ago, even if it was still in my blood.
Tagging along with my 3rd oldest sister, we went to a riding clinic so she could meet up with a few of her friends.
It was enough to set my blood on fire again, despite how I had pushed the feeling out of me.
I couldn’t sit in her SUV, waiting patiently, while she helped steady and quiet her friend’s little filly and gelding, who were acting up and showing jitters while the Montana wind whipped up a dozen things to spook at on their first public outing.
I NEEDED to help, too.
I could see my sister’s knowing smile when I jumped out of the SUV, asking if she wanted me to take the filly while her friend hooked up the horse trailer.
Who can resist the feel of horse flesh? I loved it all. The smell, the arena, the sound of hooves shifting restlessly in fresh straw laden stalls.
I’ve truly no clue when I’ll own a horse again. I only know that one day, I will.