When I was a girl, horses galloped through my imagination.
Horses of beauty, pride and grace.
These were not horses I could ride or stroke or smell. I loved them, but they were not mine.
I read about Misty, and Stormy, Black Beauty, King of the Wind. Horses made not of hide nor hair, but words.
My horse could be anything. He could be blue. He could fly!
I named him Sea Mist. I named him Banner. He was proud and strong.
He was a rush of power blasting through snow. He leapt and wheeled and snorted. He was absolutely free
. . . but he was not mine.
If he were mine, I knew my world would be different. It would be made of gold and silver.
The shadows would lighten, the pain would end, and I would never again be afraid.
I rode sometimes, but then I had to go home. I loved the snorts, the sweat and the smell, and I wanted them to stay.
I want to sit on a horse and tear across fields and plunge into water.
I want to sit on a horse and be absolutely free.
Dreamhorse has never left me: he stirs in my pulse. He sleeps in my veins.
But he is not real.
And he is not mine.
