The Horse of Unbridled Grief
Once again, I am riding the unbridled horse of grief. I’ve ridden a horse three times in my life, that I can recall, one was when I was very young probably three and it was my father‘s horse named Bucky O’Leary. My memory is fuzzy, but prompted from a photo I have of me sitting on him, an unbridled monstrosity of an animal, the look on my face in this photo is one terrified little girl. I’m sure I was hefted without warning by my Father, hoisted up and plopped down for that single photo, all bouncy curls and regailed in navy blue sailor style dress, black patten leather shoes, white socks with folded over ruffles and matching ruffled bloomers. My second memory is from my family vacation Colorado when I was 10 in my tomboy phase with bowl-cut hairstyle, Keds sneakers, baggy shorts and striped T-shirt. My mother and stepfather purchased a family bonding experience from a roadside vendor who would ride us all on horseback on a guided trail. No one seemed to have much instruction as I recall before we started, and I was paired with a slower soft brown and white horse, placed towards the back of the pack, riding solo with my mother and her beautiful black horse clopping alongside. The ride ended in terror, the horse decided to run through the streets of the city center, and I its captive. The third time I encountered a horse was in my dreams, it was as real as the sunset and as vivid as a mountain in the crisp morning light. More a memory than a dream. I rode as if I were part of the sinew of the animal, and hovered somewhere between the blood and the muscles. Every day I wake up and try to figure out who I am. I try to read the book that is unwritten; the book of me. It’s exhausting. It’s like the smell of dead flowers in an old truck.
Beautiful writing. Such an evocative description, both of riding and of grief. Sorry you are going through it, Michelle. Thank you for sharing this.
I’m so sorry for your grief. Grief is truly a wild ride. But if I may say of your writing, born of this grief—it’s so beautiful, so real, all of it—from the keds to the terror of being so little on a runaway horse—i can see it and feel it as if I am there. So powerful. I’m currently listening to the audio version of The Midnight Library and I am loving it. It really speaks to grief.