The Last Thing...

I can't get him out of my head. Now, if you're a certain person who has been grilling me over Twitter about who this "mystery man" is, you'll be disappointed. It's not THAT person [and I'm still not telling you who he is either]. It's not a person at all, it's an animal. It's my pony. I still think of him like that, though I guess he's not really anyone's horse anymore.

I can't get him out of my head, and now I'm being forced to look back at things that I'm not sure I want to scrutinize anymore. Namely, my record book is making me look back at a year that was overwhelmed by loss. That's the last thing I want to do right now; look back at the last thing that I did with him, try to figure out how I felt before I lost him. Because, right now, that's about all I can remember. Last night, I realized that I had to dig around in my memory for far too long to remember how it felt to give him a hug or wrestle a comb through his mane, or put my hand in his winter fuzz that was so long my hand was simply swallowed up into it.

Every time I go to the barn, I'm followed by thoughts of him. I look at a jump and wish that he was here so we could fly over that triple oxer. I canter up a hill on my Mom's horse with her rocking canter and remember galloping up a hill, asking him for more and more speed until we've left all the other horses miles behind. I remember getting to the top of the hill and him falling right back into a walk, with my reins on the buckle while we wait for the horses that we left behind. I remember tying him whinnying to me when I disappeared into the tack room for too long. I remember how it felt when his head flew up and his muscles all tightened in anticipation for flying over the five log spreads that ran up the hill. I remember him getting fed up with me holding him back and jumping straight into the air while he kicked all four legs out. I remember the few times he let out an ecstatic buck. I remember him licking my hand, my arm, my sweatshirt to try and find food. I remember that he almost always found some. I remember that somewhere on my Dad's computer is a picture of him with his cannon bone shattered into a million pieces.I remember that no matter how much I want him to, he's never coming back. And that's when I fall to pieces.

R.I.P. On Top of the World. You were a great pony.

R.I.P. Mickey. You were the best friend I ever had.