Rain

A little bit ago, I looked out at the back of the barn.  In the drizzle, a chestnut horse was picking at the hay I'd thrown out earlier, taking a break from grazing in the pasture.  Out of habit, I wondered which horse it was--Moe or Trinity?  It's something I don't have to consider anymore.  No more counting white socks, face markings, or body mass.  There's only one brown horse left

It hasn't rained much this summer, but this morning it did.  When I went to throw down hay and open the pasture, Trinity's copper coat was dark, soaked with it.  In my mind's eye, I see him so clearly, drenched, his coat the color of deep mahogany, the little puff of forelock that seemed to be impervious to moisture lifting in the breeze.  When he was thoroughly wet, the whites of his eyes always seemed that more pronounced, transforming him even further into a caricature of himself.  Anxiety would wash over me whenever I noticed his muddy white legs, wondering if I was in for a battle with his longstanding skin issues.

I remember how upset he would get when I would ride him during a rainfall, how he would hold his head sideways to keep the drops from his eyes and the great fuss he would make until I was finished.  He wasn't always that way, and I don't recall a particular experience that brought it on--it was just something I learned and accepted about him, especially in his later years.  Just as I choose not to fully function at temperatures lower than 20 degrees Fahrenheit, he chose to shut down during a storm.  Unfortunately for him, it seemed I always brought him out for a ride on days when showers were likely.  Even though he probably thought differently, I didn't do it on purpose.  I enjoyed all of his antics--the mini-rearing and bucking--even less than he enjoyed water pelting him in his precious eyes.  On these occasions, I would call him my 'princess pony', even though he was neither.

The storm is welcome.  Moe can't be annoyed by it anymore, as much as I wish he could.  The grey cover of the clouds and the whispering of the raindrops reassure me that it's okay to be, to heal, in a way that sunshine and the cheerfulness of the birds does not.