When I was a kid I would pretend to be a horse, and each time I couldn’t remember how to spell one of the words on my weekly spelling list, I would have to gallop around the yard, sometimes two times, sometimes three.
I also remember, as I grew older, trying to gallop mentally through rough personal times. Some nights, sleep would not come. At those times, I would let my mind wander, and images of Belle, my neighbor’s horse, would appear: his white head, his deep brown eye, his breath, his smell. He would sniff me up and down, right and left. I never felt so full of secrets. Those images slowed my brain and granted sleep.
The last time I saw Belle, he came to me even though…