You.
You are a child. Nine years old, standing on the edge of a dirt circle. Holding in one hand a bicycle helmet. On it are stickers of toothy sharks plastered over a blue plastic shell.
It is fall in New Hampshire. Cut cornfields make for barren strips of land. Brittle stalks stick up like broken teeth on a plastic comb and line the circle’s edge.
In the center, a rusty folding chair. A broad bodied woman. She wears blue sweatpants and laceless dirt stained sneakers. Carelessly holds in one hand,
A horse.
Mane and tail are matted where years of burs have tangled with coarse hair and dirt. No one will remove the mess. This one lives outside, wears down his hooves on rocky terrain and wanders the hill out back with three others. In the evenings the woman drives her truck through a space in the barbed wire fence and throws out from the back thick flakes of hay. It is rare that this horse be used but today he stands, saddled, a long line snapped to the bit of his bridle.
The woman calls you over. Tells you where to put your hands-left one on the pommel, right on the cantle. You don’t know your left from right. You begin to panic, flutter about with your hands. The woman grabs your wrists, your palms, and places them for you, one on the front of the saddle, one on the back. Bend this leg, she says, poking you behind your right kneecap. It gives. Fits like an apple in the palm of her hand. On the count of three, jump. One, two, three. You jump and the woman lifts, catapulting you in one, fluid motion up and over the horses back.

When you climb into the car after that initial lesson your mom will ask you what you think. All I want to do is trot, you’ll say and she will be surprised. She will have guessed the woman’s bluntness intimidating, off putting to you.  She will have thought you unresponsive to a harsh instructive voice. But in a year you’ll move from trot to canter. Bound out of bed for five a.m. mornings. Fall asleep with hayseed in your hair.


And the woman will yell at you. Smile. Praise you.
Seasons will pass. In the wintertime water buckets will freeze.
Kick through the icy crust with the heel of your sneaker. If your foot gets wet, ignore it.
Forty quart muck buckets filled with wet shavings and hay will need to be moved from the stacks she made to the bed of her truck. Dirt sopped lines of bailing twine will be tied to their handles.
Stretch the sleeves of your sweatshirt over your palms, grab the twine and drag. Never do this without a sweatshirt layer of protection.
Then, squeeze into the cab of her truck. You, the dog, three other girls and the woman. The windows will steam. The radio will play 103.7 KNEFM and the woman will sing along.
When summer comes she’ll gather great groups of girls in the yard, point to points on Spunky the pony and throw peanut butter cups at the head of whoever correctly names them.
You’ll get bucked off. Numerous times. This will scare you but not nearly as much as the woman does, so you keep riding the hard ones to prove your own bravery and in so doing, discover it.

Your favorite horse will die.
You’ll fall in love all over again.

And you, the child, will grow. Mark years with rows of brightly colored ribbons. Plastic 4-H trophies topped with golden cups that you tap with your finger nails and discover to be hollow.
And should discomfort come. Should father betray, should mother leave, you can linger after barn chores to sit in the stall of your favorite horse and draw to the rhythm of his chew. Find safety in the smell of alfalfa, sweet feed, sweat.


At home, should thoughts collide or angry words encroach, you can dive into the glossy pages of Show Horse magazine. Memorize bloodliies and barn names. Chart who won the world and build dreams of doing the same. Fall asleep to imagined echoes – the announcers voice calling your number. The weightlessness –the building propulsion of the park trot beneath you.
The chestnut sized eye you will look into and find in its reflection, a knowledge of yourself.