I started dreaming when I was about 5. Over the years, as that dream began to take form, it had big gentle brown eyes and a soft velvety muzzle that would nudge me for carrots and hugs. It had the spirit and courage to jump any wall, the talent to win blue ribbons, the gentleness to take care of its rider, and the patience to listen to a girl’s confidences. It would be my best friend through thick and thin, in a world where other kids were fickle and cruel and books didn’t respond to me or lean into my brushes and embraces. It would be my partner in adventures, the best of Starlight, Black Beauty, Misty, Artax, and every other fictional horse rolled up in one. It was a dream for which I begged and pleaded, worked and saved, and nurtured for 11 years before it became reality and I held it in my hands.
Last Tuesday, that dream started its usual trek up from the pasture for his dinner. But this time, he never made it. Somewhere along the corridor between the pasture gate and the stall, he laid down and his soul left his body.
The next morning, I woke up to learn that for the first time in 14 years, I no longer owned a horse. The dream I’d nourished for 25 years had died.