Horse Girls

My short-fused mother became close with a coworker
and took us to visit her ranch in Charlotte. My sisters
and I strapped into our minivan, trundling along past
farm after farm. On arrival, she told us to make friends
with the woman’s daughters, so we did. (My kindly heart
was always hungry for love.) My wisecracking young
sisters hung out with the older one, while I made friends
and played dolls with the youngest. What else was there
to do in unfamiliar territory? A nice house, a nicer family.
Spacious. I behaved well with them. The two daughters
were teenagers, and both rode horses. They were like
my father’s sister in Cape Cod, in that respect. My friend
introduced her mare to me and told me to be gentle.
Awed, I stroked the brown snout that hunched down to
my level. We visited them in state a few separate times,
and were invited to see my friend perform in a show-
riding competition. A cavernous dim barn with a dirt
floor that whispered underfoot. Ten or twelve years old,
wearing a polo, I pressed at the rope fence, my stomach
and feet peeping into the ring. The horse recognized
me and trotted over, ignoring the girl’s commands. And
the impact: of condensed keratin and bone; the crush,
an eighth of a ton in pressure applied by the offending
forehoof sinister; I emptied my lungs, a siren, steam-
whistle, seagull. In guilt, shaken up, her show was a dud,
and so lost her chance at another ribbon to hang over
her bed. Mortally embarrassed, my mother said it was
my fault the girl lost, and shouted at me until her anger
was spent. (My foot was intact, but nobody asked.)
The ride home then silent. The visits and friendships
all stopped after that.


---published by Hawaii Pacific Review https://hawaiipacificreview.org/2024/10/24/horse-girls/