It’s been the longest two weeks of my life. I miss my Yellow. I know I said I would leave this blog alone, but I need some place to vent. I try not to talk about him because it makes people uncomfortable when they don’t know what to say. They don’t need to say anything at all, really. It’s not like anything can make me feel better, and I’m really not expecting it to.
But I can speak of him without crying. I can recall funny stories, and good moments and smile sometimes. There are other times where, for seemingly no reason at all, I find myself sitting in the quiet car with tears streaming down my face. I haven’t had the guts to go to the barn and clean up his things. His tail sits in my bedroom, waiting for me to trust the post office to deliver it, to be made into a memory.
Every picture I see makes me well up with tears. I can’t help but stare at his hooves and wonder if something was already wrong. Maybe I missed something. Maybe I jumped too high, rode too fast, didn’t pick his hooves enough. I regret all the cold days of winter when I decided it was too miserable to ride, and preferred to spend my days indoors. If someone would’ve told me it would end like this, I would’ve been at the barn through the coldest of days.
I miss him. I miss the freedoms he afforded me. The hours spent grooming. I miss riding him. Knowing that he would take care of me over every jump, even if I made a mistake. I miss getting on him, after a hiatus from riding, and it was like we hadn’t skipped a beat. I miss being at the ingate, heart thumping from nerves, and thinking there is nobody else I’d rather be there with, than him.
He’s my background on my computer’s desktop. Someone saw his picture today and asked me, “oh do you ride? Is that your horse?” I didn’t know what to say. “He was, but he died” would surely make them uncomfortable. It sounds so definitive. So over.
I settled for, “he’s my baby.” Because as long as I’m living, my baby he’ll be.