Dirty Hands, Clean Heart, Can't Lose

By June, I had learned to run up the stairs of the concert hall almost as fast as my sister. I swayed along with the crowd to songs I had never heard before, alongside people I felt like I'd seen before.  A few months prior I had run away from my old life, and everthing was up in the air. Glimpses of how I could piece it all back together flashed as quickly as the stage lights, set to a driving beat. None of them stuck. I knew I had made a huge damn mistake, and the only way out was to be a rock in a tumbler of other rocks. Hopefully I would be polished back into something appealing and recognizable.

In my spare time, to forget my predicament, I volunteered at a horse rescue. It was shedding season and I was grateful for the task of transferring mud and hair off of warm bodies. Their eyes were unfathomably kind. The horses had different backstories that ended in being dumped at auction. Different circumstances, same (unlikely) rescue. The grooming I gave them was equally standard. Because none of them showed sensitivity to the pressure from the grooming mitt, they received the same circular massage I gave my own horse back home. Had they been shorter and chestnut, I would have felt like they were actually him. If I decided to move here permanently, he would be shipped to me, out of my old life and into my new one.

I worked knots out of their manes and tails, combing them out with my fingers, which needed the fidgeting. A layer of grime settled into my hands, and I reminded myself to wash them before driving back to the city in my borrowed car. I scratched the withers of Braveheart, who had at one point cleaned up as a jumper in the local show circuit.

As a child, I would have gazed at Braveheart and his rider with longing. His rider would have given me the side-eye: "Don't spook him and fuck up my round."

As I took in his angular face and cloudy eye, I thought angry words at the imaginary rider: "How could you?" I had been needing a win after a series of utterly stupid and rash decisions, and looking down on someone was a good time to give my halo a much-needed polishing. I could make my own dodgy life seem okay, one dumped horse at a time.

Walking into the next barn, I saw tubs of beet pulp soaking. Yes, I thought, this is a good place for old horses. The aura of good horsemanship and endorphins warmed me inside. My horse would thrive here.

Inevitably, chill set back in as I pulled out of the drive and back onto the highway. A song from the concert washed over me, only this time I recognized it. I sped through the dappled light and back toward where I would need to finally make a decision.