She walked down the familiar barn aisle, peering into the box stalls as she passed. Friendly eyes met hers, a few heads even poked over stall guards to watch her as she walked away. Some days she brought carrots, and the horses knew that. In the tack room she smelled leather and sweat, and she ran her fingers over the smooth saddles and traced the buckles on bridles. A box of brushes sat next to the door, and she picked it up as she walked back through. In the cross ties, her partner for the day stood patiently, eyes half closed, one hoof resting on the toe, hip jutted out as the horse napped. She laughed softly, and he opened his eyes.
“If someone came along and unclipped that rope, you would fall on your nose big guy!”
She gently stroked his face as she spoke, and leaned into his mane, breathing his scent in. This was so much better than school, where her friends begged for attention from football players and those dumb guys who thought that skinny jeans looked good on their skinny bodies. Here, there was no make-up on young faces, hair was pulled back in ponytails and braids, all the girls wore old jeans or tan riding breeches, and black boots. Everyone here, no matter how different, had the same purpose.
She groomed her mount, massaging him with the curry comb, in counter clockwise circles. She was careful over his hip bones, and then on his neck, when he leaned into her hand to tell her it felt good, she spent an extra second there. Then the body brush and the soft brush for his face, and to give him an extra shine. She picked up each of his four feet, checking for loose shoes and trapped stones. Then she gently saddled him, talking to him as she tightened the girth. He flicked his ears back and lifted his head very slightly to let her know he wasn’t thrilled with that part, but after a gentle pat and a whispered “Sorry, boy” he forgave her.
Next was the bridle, and she held the bit in her hands for a few moments, blowing warm air on the metal, before she gently slid it into his mouth, careful not to bump any teeth. She adjusted and fastened the nose band, and throat latch, made sure there was no mane or forelock trapped under the leather. Even though horses have no nerve ending in their manes, she always made sure there was nothing that could be pulled and make the horse uncomfortable. She pulled her helmet onto her head, and fastened it beneath her chin, then pulled the reins over his head, and led him to the arena.
It was Saturday, and the ring was full, younger students bouncing around on patient ponies, older girls warming up their rides with circles, asking their horses to bend their necks, and give to their hands. Riding instructors stood in the center, calling out directions, asking riders to push forward, or collect back, to soften hands and steady legs. The instructors of the younger riders called out encouragement and praise for every little deed done right. Some of the horses knew the instructors voices so well, you wondered if it was their rider in control, or the voice in the center of the ring. The arena was damp where it had been watered to keep the dust down, and her boots crunched across the sand to the mounting block. Left foot in the stirrup, right leg over the saddle, and she gently lowered herself onto his back.
The rhythm of his walk soothed her, and she wondered, what in the world do girls without horses to ride on Saturdays? Without the smell of hay and dust. The sounds of hot breath and stomping feet, swishing tails and metal shoes on concrete.
It felt like excitement and love, and home.
And she couldn’t imagine a better home.
