Untitled - Campbell University

120
Back in the Saddle
Christopher Weston
I wonder if I’m about to die.
I’m not ready to die. Who is I’m only seventeen years old and I have my
whole life ahead of me. College, career, family, retirement…a full, eventful life.
Could it really end right here and now, within the next hour or two I think back
on my life. Have I really done anything worthwhile Have I done anything that can
potentially be considered a legacy Has any action of mine been notable No, not
that I can recall. Then again, my mind is just a tad preoccupied at the moment with
other things.
I walk up to the pasture gate and see him, standing innocently in the far
corner of the enclosure. A black and white paint gelding. Gypsy. My horse. He is
grazing, without a care in the world.
I grab the halter hanging on the gate latch and step into the pasture. At the
sound of the gate’s squeak, Gypsy looks up at me, and our eyes meet. He flicks an
ear – to dislodge a fly – and stands perfectly still as I approach.
Can he sense the fiery fear that’s pounding through my veins
“Hey there, boy,” I say. It’s a perfectly ordinary greeting, one I’ve said dozens
of time. But this time my voice shakes.
Gypsy’s ear flicks again and he snorts.
I take a deep breath and reach up, half-expecting him to back away. Surely
he can feel my fear, taste it as though it flavored the grass he’d been munching on
not two minutes before. But he doesn’t react at all when I slip the halter over his
head and begin leading him to the gate. His walk is brisk yet calm, and his head
bobs gently with each step. If he knows how terrified I am in this moment, he isn’t
showing it at all.
I tie him to the hitching post and step back, observing him for a moment.
He is tall, about sixteen hands high, and in good shape. He is 1200 pounds of flesh,
muscle, and bone, all coated in a fine layer of black and white hair in shapeless
patches. His mane and forelock are white, and his tail starts out white but turns to
black about halfway down. He’s beautiful. And utterly terrifying.
I take a deep breath and pick up a currycomb, thus beginning the grooming
ritual I’ve performed countless times before. By making small circular motions with
the comb, I bring the dirt clinging to his body to the surface, and I will sweep it
away a little later with a brush. Gypsy huffs once and relaxes, leaning slightly into
my hand. He’s enjoying the attention, and I can’t help but smile.
It had been this way a month ago. I was grooming him without a care in the
world, and he was enjoying it. I was happy, and he was happy. How could I have
ever suspected what would happen