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I leave the paper just before dinnertime. When I reach the end of the driveway leading to Matthews Farm, I discover the rusted mailbox has chosen today to topple over.
I pull into the driveway and hop out of the truck to straighten it. Unfortunately, the post itself has rotted through. No matter how many different angles I try to prop it up from, it refuses to stay upright.
“Fine,” I mutter, yanking the box clean off the post and plopping it in the dirt.Sorry, mailperson, I think, as I addbuy new mailbox postto my mental to-do list.
I should probably get a new mailbox as well. The peeling letters that spell out Matthews Farm are barely visible. The outline from where the sun has altered the rest of the paint is the main reason it’s even possible to read what was initially displayed along the side of the metal mailbox.
The horses all head for the gate as soon as I park outside the barn. They know what my arrival home means. I walk into the tack room first to mix their grain, depositing a bucket in each stall before returning to the gate.
I grab Stormy and Dusty’s halters first, buckling them in place and then leading the two mares into the barn. I repeat the process with the rest of the mares, then make my way over to the west pasture to fetch the stallions. I grab Geiger first. Unlike the mares, I never lead the stallions in at the same time. They’re ornery and unpredictable on a good day.
When I return for Gallie, he’s trotting back and forth along the fence line. I whistle, and he bolts for me. I grab his halter and put it on as efficiently as I can with him constantly tossing his head.
Rather than start toward the barn, I close the pasture gate behind me, containing us both inside the couple of acres the stallions graze on every day. I knot the lead line around the ring I clipped it to, forming a makeshift set of reins. After guiding Gallie over to the fence, I climb the lower two rungs. I’m still a foot below his broad back, but it’s enough I can pull myself up with a mixture of determination and exertion.
It’s Gallie’s day to be exercised, but I would be on his back tonight even if it wasn’t. This isn’t how I usually ride him. Ride any of the horses.
But I’m feeling tired. Lazy. Reckless.
Even at age six, Gallie could give the horses set to race in the Landry Cup this weekend a run for their money. Riding him without a bit or saddle is similar to standing on a plane during take-off.
I slide onto rippling muscles anyway. Gallie’s figured out what’s going on. He’s dancing in place, tossing his head in excitement. Before I second-guess this decision—before I grab my makeshift reins, even—he takes off, eating up meters of grass at a breathtaking pace.
I knot my fingers in his black mane, weaving them between the rough strands in a desperate attempt to stay on his back.
The speed is jarring.
My stomach got left back by the fence.
Adrenaline streams through my veins. For the first time in days, I can’t think. I’m focused on the immediate, on ensuring I don’t end up beneath the hooves trampling the ground with a rhythmic series of resounding thuds. On the strides churning up divots of grass at a startling speed.
I relax atop shifting muscles, making a grab for the rope that’s been swaying in time with Gallie’s strides at the exact wrong moment.
A bird flies out from one of the oaks that lines the pasture. Gallie spooks, turning to the right with a pivot that would make a barrel racer proud. I’m not one, and my reflexes are too slow. My vantage point shifts as I fly through the air and then land in a heap on the hard ground.
My shoulder takes the brunt of the impact. I roll onto my back, staring up at the clear sky as I readjust to being on the grass, rather than flying along above it. One by one, I shift all my limbs and muscles. Aside from my shoulder, the only bruise is to my pride.
If Gramps were here, he’d be bent over laughing as soon as he realized I was all right. He always preferred to watch others ride than hop aboard a horse himself.
I love riding. It’s been a part of my life for longer than I can remember. But the number of hours I’ve racked up on horseback were more a product of necessity than pleasure. One of many tasks I took on a long time ago simply because there was no one else who could, or would.
All of a sudden, I have a chance to drop all of them. To decide if they’re chores I still want to do now that I have a choice not to.
A terrifying, exciting prospect.
My view of the dusky sky is interrupted by a black muzzle. Gallie has returned to my side, realizing I was left behind.
I stand slowly, both to avoid startling the massive stallion and because hitting the ground at that speed felt like I imagine being smacked by a speeding train would.
I don’t bother trying to climb back on his back. I hobble back toward the barn. Gallie is happy to amble alongside me. He kept running for several minutes after dumping me, and it appears to have been a more effective form of exercise than the controlled canter around the training track that’s his normal running routine.
After depositing Gallie in his stall, I head inside for my second shower of the day. The water pressure feels heavenly against my tired muscles. I dress in jeans and a T-shirt, then pad downstairs to the kitchen.
A quick glance inside the fridge reminds me why I ate cold cereal for dinner last night. I heave out a sigh and pull a loaf of bread from the freezer.
Two slices pop out from the toaster a few minutes later, ready to be slathered in peanut butter. I take a seat in my usual chair at the kitchen table, slowly munching on the glorified snack. I finish eating but keep sitting. Today’s checklist is complete. Horses, work, horses, eating. All done. I could read. I could watch television. I could continue sorting through piles.
There’s only one thing I want right now. Rather than shove it to the back of my mind, I embrace it. And the same reckless energy that made me climb on an animal weighing more than a ton with nothing more than a flimsy rope makes me stand, grab the truck’s keys, and head out the door.
