My Home Town (4)

Her name was Gypsy, and we loved to ride her. She was tame and easy going, reddish-chocolatey brown with a black forelock and tail. I started out being afraid to climb up (she seemed so huge!), but my friend said, "She's fine and wouldn't hurt a flea!" It wasn't the flea I was worried about, but swallowing hard, I placed my shaking foot in that stirrup. Everything looked so different from high up in the saddle! This was the life for me.

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Soon we were taking her around the pasture. The two of us, a blond and a redhead, walked, trotted, cantered, and eventually galloped until we just couldn't take anymore.  My friend taught me how to remove her saddle and bridle, and then to rub her down at the end of the ride. One must always rub her coat well, and be sure she drinks enough water. 

I was hooked, and filled with high desire to have such a horse. What fine adventures we would have! How envious the other girls would be if I had my very own steed, instead of just Ricky, our weenie dog. A weenie dog is fine, I'm sure, and cute and sweet (well, except when its teeth find their way to one's hand). But it's just not a horse. 

One day while thinking through the unfairness of this horse-less-ness, the phone rang. Mother answered, and the look on her face made me suddenly frightened. I watched as she listened.

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There was News. Two girls from our school had been riding their horses that day. They had been cantering along a field on the outskirts of town when my sister's close friend was thrown. Her head struck something hard and unmoving, and the injuries were severe. We couldn't believe this! We saw her every day at school - how could such a thing have happened? 

Because her injuries were so severe, she lived only a few days. This death was devastating to everyone in the town, who came together in a massive outpouring of help for the family. It all felt frightening, and strange, and important. 

I saw that it had been so selfish for me to wish I could have something as magnificent as a horse, all my own.

Suddenly, that was no longer the adventure for me. I hadn't known it could be so dangerous, but now this awareness hit hard. Time can bring with it a sadness that no amount of adventure could alleviate. 

So I went slowly home, walked through the door, and looked for Ricky. 

There he was, under the table...waiting for me.




photo credit: <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/akahodag/2832990443/">akahodag</a> via <a href="http://photopin.com">photopin</a> <a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/2.0/">cc</a>

photo credit: <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/35188692@N00/2483572801/">eye of einstein</a> via <a href="http://photopin.com">photopin</a> <a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/">cc</a>