Daisies in the sun outlined against the cool brick. Why do beautiful things make me sneeze? I watched you tie your shoes ruthlessly. I was 2600 miles away and two years back, riding Bandit to the top of Windy Hill. He and I saw the trail curve steeply upwards as we turned the corner. He lifted his head and started to climb, vigorously, but at a walk. His left ear flicked back, waiting for the slightest “ok.” I barely brushed him with my spur and reached forward to grab his mane. He was off. He powered up the hill, accelerating where it grew steeper, dodging rocks and crevices in the landscape; he knew the trail as well as I did. At the top of the turn the path leveled out and I sat up and touched his mouth with my little finger. He broke to a trot and we rode through the whispering soft grasses halfway up the mountainside. I dismounted and he turned to me, frothy with nostrils flared. We stood for a while looking out over the valley, the bridges and the bay sitting in the vague dusk that had fallen over the city. His breathing calmed and he dropped his head to pick through the light green grasses that blanketed the hillside and brought it to life. I leaned into his shoulder and lifted his foot to look at his shoe. I brushed out some clods of dirt in his sole and saw that his shoe was slightly turned on his hoof. I put it back down and slid my hand over his neck and shoulder, shimmering and wet with sweat but cool in the breeze. His rump, however, was dry and dusty and his coat smelled like summer. We were alone.

I was there until you picked up your bookbag. “What’s wrong?” you said. “Nothing, just thinking.” “Oh, you looked sad.” Maybe I was. But if I was, it wasn’t for things past but rather, uneasiness about the present, the future, fear of loss and incertitude. Standing with Bandit on Windy Hill only existed in a past reality because I made very hard-edged decisions, decisions that I never regretted but that perhaps closed off other opportunities. To move forward I must leave things behind; but first I must try to get over the feeling that leaving something behind means I value it less. Because I know it doesn’t.