Wild Horses and Me

                                                                     Photo by Sheila Swayze on Unsplash


One of my earliest memories is that of the wallpaper in my bedroom. It was filled with horses. Horses running—gorgeous legs extended, manes windswept, eyes wild and free. It was our first, "starter" home as a family, and any three-year-old girl in her right mind would have counted herself lucky to have that equine wallpaper. 

It was all good until my parents turned off my light. 

"Nighty, night," one of them would whisper, tiptoeing backwards, leaving my door one-inch ajar, as if the sliver of light from the hallway could fend off what was to come. 

Tried as I might, each and every night, those damn horses didn't stay in place for long. As soon as I drifted off in my twin bed, I would startle awake, sitting bolt upright, head on a swivel. Without fail, the horses woke me up, leaping off the wall straight at me. I managed to stay ahead of them by the skin of my teeth, jumping off the bed in a full sprint, down the hall, into my parents' room. I would launch myself, a human torpedo, smack dab into the middle of their king-sized bed. Come to think of it, there was plenty of room between them, in bed and in life. I would snuggle in, some nondescript deli meat to their sandwich bread. The warmth of their skin and the softness of their nightwear enveloped me. Despite the repetitive stress and momentary, nocturnal terror, I didn't want the sweet, rescue respites to end. In those moments, I felt loved. 

Like all good things, it was not meant to last. Two years later we moved, leaving the horses—and the welcome snuggles—behind forever. It would be a very long time before I could recapture that sense of being safely held.