If I let my mind be still enough, he always wanders back to me. Feet dragging, but ears pricked, searching eyes and wriggling muzzle. In the quiet, his low nicker echoes. My hand reaches out to trace the swirl of his forehead, but it fades from view. Then he is tumbling, tumbling until he is no more than a waning vessel, his spirit snuffling the hair at the base of my neck before he turns to go.
That horse embodied all that was good about me as a child, and maybe what was good about me as a person. I'm not the same without him.
hugs
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