Dreams of madness

The cool, dark night had surrounded us, and there was a blanket of stars to light the way. As I rode, the gentle breeze danced across my skin, and through the white mane of my horse. I could feel the soft, delicate hair of his golden coat, as my hand toyed with the tiny bit of hair at the base of his withers. I leaned my head back and let out a sigh, and I could feel my horse relax underneath me.  

Why hadn't I done this so long ago? I fervently tried to remember the reason why I had not ridden my beloved horse in so long, but the reason did not unveil itself. Instead, it was locked away in some distant part of my mind. I knew it had been years since I had ridden my horse, and there was a very relevant reason, but in some magical way, it's like I had woken up on his back on this beautiful starry night, out to enjoy the moon.  

This was complete and utter paradise. As we continued onward, I could see the curved outlines of the California hills in the distance, with little flashing lights of passing cars going back and forth along the bottom. A little flicker of reminisce flashed across my mind. I think I've been here before. I suddenly could not remember why or where, but the feeling still remained with me. I smiled, sighed, and rode on.  

As I rode on, I found many memories of the long friendship my horse and I had made. After all, this had been eleven long years in the making and things are bound to happen in a timeframe of that magnitude. There had been thousands of ribbons won, people who'd learned the basics of riding a horse with him, trails and roads we'd ridden on.  

I remembered this one time, when we lived in the Valley, we'd gone for a walk around the neighborhood together, and I found this skull that belonged to what I think was a large rat. But it had these beautiful, intricate lines on it where the parts of the skull connected, and I remember that it made me stop and think about how precious and fragile life was, and I felt such a connection to that little skull that I wrapped it up in tissue and placed it in a jewelry box. I'd shown it to my horse, and he gently sniffed and examined it, just to make sure it wasn't food, or something important of that magnitude.  

Another time, I'd been on his back, and I'd discovered a brown toy dinosaur jammed in the top of a chain link fence. He was so patient waiting by the road as the cars passed as I gently pulled the long tail out and once I'd been triumphant, I placed the little guy on the pommel of the saddle and rode home with my trophy. I still have it, somewhere.  

The little path we were on had suddenly opened up into a large meadow, and it was full of these beautiful wildflowers, all white and gold. There was something so familiar about these flowers, and he patiently waited while I leaned over and picked one.  

This will be a lovely keepsake of this beautiful ride. I held it gently in my hand, as we continued. I could feel my horse pick up a little, and here, in this big open field, I urged him on to canter around. I could feel my hair sway behind me, the gentle breeze of speed moving past us. I loved this, I missed this, this is the beauty I'd remembered of riding Troy. This reminded me, of that one time when I was out riding in this field, and Troy picked up the most beautiful, big canter and we'd flown around the field. I felt like I was at the top of the world, and that nothing could take me down.  

This other time, we'd ridden with a group of students and when the lesson had ended, we had the arena to ourselves. I urged him on into a canter and a few people walking down the aisle stopped to watch us, my laughter echoed throughout the barn as I was whisked around.  

People had always been impressed by our bond. For a long time I rode at training barns where lots of people would learn to ride their horses, and there we were, two different individuals who communicated without words, following each other around as if something linked us together.  

That’s when it hit me. Troy can’t be ridden, what am I doing on him? I asked him to halt, and I slowly dismounted. Years ago, we’d been in a riding accident and after hundreds of x-rays and soundness checks, it had been determined that he was no longer safe to ride.  

I slid off, and shook my head. It’s okay, we will walk. I gestured to him and he understood, picking up in pace walking next to me as we left the field and got back on to the path. Maybe I was just really tired and had come out in my sleep, or something.  I remember those first months after the accident. I’d had a very hard time walking and he and I would go for short strolls around the barn yard. People had started to make comments, calling him my “lawn ornament”. I used to fight back, defending that an injury made him no less of a horse. After all, he’d protected me in our accident. That alone was worthy of all the best treatment in his retirement.  

We started back on to our walk, our path tilting downwards. The moon was in front of us now, lighting up the path, as we found ourselves approaching a group of trees. The path did not exist now, and all that was in front of me now was a tire and a section of disturbed dirt.  

I looked over to my left, and Troy was gone. It was in that moment that I suddenly remembered what my mind had been trying to tell me.  

Troy is dead. Oh, my Troy. I sank to my knees, and I grasped at the dirt, watching it sift through my fingers and embed itself into my fingernails. I wanted to continue to dig, to paw and dig myself a hole next to him, to situate myself deep into the ground where I could be with him again, to feel that closeness, but I knew that what was left of him was not the part that I yearned the most for.  

I remembered that early March morning. Together, we’d walked down the hill, to where he’d be forever resting, in the Arkansas soil. He’d been with me for eleven years, and seven days. There was something so significant to me, a date that I’m obsessed with, all over me like a tattoo that no one else can see. It has been some time since I have lost him, but here I am, lost in the delusion and insanity of searching for something I do not have. 

Instead, I must deal with the most impossible part of it all and conclude that he is with me, he can see me, but I cannot see or feel him.  

I think that is the worst part of grief. Suddenly coming to consciousness out of a dream, or delusion and finding your world ripped apart, only marked by a tire. I laid down now, dirt turning to mud on my tear-stained face, my arms outstretched as if I was trying to cover him, hands gripping the dirt. 

The cool night breeze blew over my skin and brushed my hair off of my face and cooled my ears. He was here, just like he’s always been. The same way he’d loved me and cared for me since I was a little girl, the same way he’d continue to find ways to communicate to me, from wherever he was. 

And as I laid there, the breeze lulling me to sleep, I repeated the last words I’d said to him, when I said goodbye.  

You are my moon, you are my stars. You are the sunshine and the rain, the wind and the Earth. You are my world.