As she ran her fingers lightly against the dusty bars of the stalls, she breathed in the potent nostalgia that slowly emanated from the crumbling barn walls. One by one, the aisle way light bulbs, left unchanged for years, began to dimly illuminate the upswept, hay-laden floor. Her eyes traveled to the old bucket at her feet, scraping away the mold and revealing a five-gallon oasis of clear, glistening water. Bright memories shed the decrepit, antiquated exterior of the building, painting it the sunny yellow and lustrous green she remembered it to be. Taking up a broom, she swept down the aisle until it mirrored the reminiscent images rushing through her mind. She picked up the bucket and clipped it to the rusty hook inside the musty stall. Rolling up her sleeves, she stepped quietly and tentatively into the tack room, pushing open the door with a creak. Around her was a vast collection of un-oiled leather saddles and bridles. She walked up to saddle rack number one and studied the picture of the dark bay pony on the wall. His eyes met hers with that mischievous glint she remembered so well, with ears perked attentively and a nose so soft she had never been able to resist stroking it with doting affection. She studied each picture on the wall one by one while waves of memories flooded into her mind so fast, she began to contemplate whether she should leave, for fear of drowning. Reaching number 16, she closed her eyes, but quickly forced them open again. It was painful, but an unbearable longing drew her eyes to the hard, brittle saddle in front of her. Then to the bridle. Finally she reached the cracked and withering photograph on the wall. Reaching out her hand, she brushed away the thick dust, and she was unable to stop the tear that rolled down her cheek. Or the next. She stood there with eyes spilling over with tear after tear, but she did not cry. She laughed softly at the picture of her horse, with its head hugging her shoulder as she stroked its neck lovingly, feeling the soft hair underneath her young fingers. Standing in the stall, she held onto the horse’s warm neck as if she was afraid to let go.

A fly landed on Cochise’s nose and he snorted, yanking his head away from around Michelle’s shoulder. Looking enormously confused, he shook his head up and down, earning a surprised laugh from Michelle. Walking calmly towards her horse, she stretched out a comforting hand, and Cochise exhaled deeply, leaning into Michelle. “It was only a fly, you know,” she told him quietly, “You can be so silly sometimes.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out a homemade molasses horse treat she had made that morning. “Treat?” she asked. It was a rhetorical question; Cochise always wanted a treat. Letting out a small whinny, her horse came over and sniffed it with great curiosity, then munched it down, looking quite content. Michelle opened the stall door, allowing him to stick his head out to look up and down the recently swept aisle way. She went to her box, pulled out a halter, and slipped it on Cochise’s head. Or rather, Cochise slipped it on, eager to get outside. While Michelle waited for him to finish drinking from his water bucket, she took a minute to admire what a fine horse he was. She had gotten him as a gangly little four-year-old off-the-track thoroughbred racehorse. After only six failed races, his owners had kept him in a field for a year, so by the time Michelle bought him, he was skinny and in need of some serious training. Every day for five years, Michelle had worked hard to train him in dressage, show jumping, and cross-country. Looking at him now, she realized what a long way he had come. The horse in front of her was nothing like the lanky colt she had first seen five years ago. What she saw now was a finely muscled, metallic, dapple-grey gelding with a coat as smooth as silk, capable of jumping five-foot plus fences. She also saw her best friend. Over the years, they had developed a special bond. When Michelle looked into his warm, chocolaty brown eyes, she saw forgiveness, compassion, and understanding. No matter how sad, Cochise’s silly antics and gentle understanding always seemed to make it better. She trusted him more than she trusted anyone else. Once Cochise’s thirst was sufficiently quenched, Michelle whistled for him to follow her outside. He walked down the aisle way beside her, the clip-clop of his hooves softly echoing against the wooden walls. Stepping out into the falling dusk, Michelle breathed in the cool evening air. She plopped down on a soft patch of grass, and shifted so that she was leaning forward on her elbows, while Cochise munched on happily. She loved coming to this farm. It was a sanctuary from the grotesque reality lying on the other side of the fence. It was a place where colossal worries shriveled up into itty-bitty flies buzzing around empty feed pans, a place where fears were carried swiftly away by the wind into the vast fields. Michelle rolled over onto her side, propping herself up with her elbow. She watched as Cochise chewed leisurely on the luscious grass, swishing his tail this way and that. “It must be nice, Cochise,” she said, “not to have one worry in the world.”

After putting Cochise into the field, Michelle washed up and sat down to dinner. Wiping her mouth, she excused herself and walked into the kitchen. She put her dishes in the sink and began to turn around, but the magazine on the counter caught her eye. It was that week’s Equine Weekly magazine, and the headline that ran across the page shouted “Regional Young Rider Championships: This Saturday!” Flipping to the page, she read the details. “Deadline for entry forms is today!” was in bold at the top of the page. She read the requirements and necessary awards to enter, and found that she was fully qualified. After taking a minute to hop up and down with giddy excitement, she told her mom about the competition, then filled out the entry form. Opening the screen door, she stepped outside to the sound of crickets and the leaves crunching beneath her feet. She slipped the entry form into the mailbox and crunched back towards the house, turning back to whisper goodnight to Cochise.

Saturday came quickly, and before she knew it, she was loading Cochise into the trailer. Even though he had no idea where he was headed, Cochise remained calm, because he trusted Michelle to keep him safe. Giving him a quick kiss on the nose, Michelle closed the door to the trailer and hopped into the passenger’s seat next to her mom. A short drive later, they arrived at Shirewood Farms, where the competition was being held. After unloading Cochise and setting him up with some hay, Michelle headed over to the registration desk. Around her she saw a sea of beautiful, conditioned Warmbloods with flawless conformations and tightly braided manes and tails. Outwardly, they resembled Cochise: well muscled and majestic, but the truth was that the majority of horses showing at such a high level did not share any bond with their riders. They were purely mechanical; to their riders, they were nothing more than a piece of equipment. Shaking her head, Michelle continued on to the registration desk, picked up her forms and rider number, and jogged back to Cochise. She brushed off the dirt and dust, picked his hooves, and braided his mane and tail. Then, she tacked him up and, pulling on her last tall boot, Michelle took a deep breath. “Alright big boy, you ready?” she breathed nervously. Cochise took a deep breath too, and nestled his head around her shoulder. Relaxing instantly, she rubbed circles up and down her horse’s warm neck. For a moment, she forgot about the pressure, the nerves, and the competition. All of that was insignificant, like itty-bitty flies buzzing around empty feed pans. Pulling away reluctantly, she gave him one final pat on the shoulder. “C’mon Cochise,” she said, “This will be fun.”

“RIDER NUMBER 207, YOU’RE UP NEXT IN RING FOUR!” shouted the announcer. Michelle and Cochise walked down the short gravel path to ring four. The rules of dressage allotted riders two minutes to ride around the ring, so Michelle took those two minutes to prepare mentally, tune in her focus, and breathe. “Think, focus, breathe. Think, focus, breathe,” she repeated in her head over and over. The judge rang the bell for her to begin her test, and Michelle gathered up the reins. “Let’s go big boy,” she whispered. One of Cochise’s ears cocked back, a signal that he had heard, and they trotted into the ring as one. Her seat swayed back and forth with the horse’s back, sinking and rising with each floating step. Wiggling her fingers imperceptibly on the right rein, Cochise responded almost simultaneously with a halt. After her salute, Michelle gently nudged her calves against her horse’s sides, and they continued majestically onward. She held her breath as she gave the command for a half canter pirouette, a risky start to the test. Incredibly, Cochise collected himself beautifully and finished the pirouette gracefully, his tail swishing to the side with a flourish. Turning the corner of the ring, Michelle raised her heels in her stirrups and pushed him forward along the diagonal. Cochise followed suit with a burst of power from the hind end, reaching out far with his front legs in a flawless extended trot. Riding it well, Michelle collected him again to turn the next corner and leg yield right to the center and left to return to the long side. After two comparatively easy working trot circles, she focused hard on the final move. Turning down the centerline towards the judges, she signaled for Cochise to gather himself onto his haunches for a collected canter. Then, shifting her weight right and left, Cochise began the one-tempi’s (a skipping motion). One, two, one, two, one, two, and with a final wiggle of her fingers, they finished with a polished halt. Walking out of the arena, Michelle reached down and gave him a pat on the shoulder. “We did it, big boy,” she said, “You and me.”

Michelle walked back to the trailer with her hands behind her back, smiling from ear to ear. “Guess what,” she sang happily as she approached Cochise, “Second place!” She whipped her hands out from behind her back and proudly held up the shining red ribbon, then ran up to her horse and threw her hands around his neck. “We did it, big boy,” she said softly, “You and me.”

Back at the barn, Michelle unloaded the trailer and hosed off Cochise, taking out his braids to let his mane and tail hang freely. She led him outside and sat down in their favorite spot, pulling out a homemade molasses treat from her pocket. “Treat?” she asked. Always a rhetorical question, Cochise’s ears perked up suddenly and he came over to investigate, sniffing the treats curiously. Munching happily, he shifted onto his knees and lay down in the soft grass. Michelle scooted over and lay down so that her head was next to his, then turned and softly kissed his nose, rubbing circles down his soft dappled neck. “I don’t know what I’d do without you, Cochise,” she whispered quietly before drifting off to sleep.

As the beautiful memory faded away, a sour taste and a metallic smell became present. She bit her lip and a slim drop of blood began to run down her tear-soaked skin. Reaching out, she peeled the withering picture off the wall and held it tightly in her hands. Taking in a quick breath, Michelle’s composure shattered and she collapsed onto the dirty floor and cried, gripping onto the sleeves of her jacket like a child.