I remember - I wish

I remember when the body was not so battered, when it was younger, smaller, more muscular and more supple. It was toned by bike rides to and from the stables before and after school; it was trimmed by riding horses every single day; it was tempered by vigorous grooming of those same horses and it was strengthened by cleaning stables and tossing straw.

It was more flexible, relaxing into the ground as it landed after yet another disagreement between horse and rider about velocity, height and direction.

It managed to hang onto the reins every time and so avoid the long, ignominious trudge home following the trail of galloping hoof prints.

It even had the nerve to return for repeated doses day after day, the success of a few steps of “passage” or sailing over the jumps with ease being sufficient opiate to continue the addiction.

I wish the body had been treated with more compassion by time. Now the body creaks as it stiffly eases out of bed; now the arthritic joints are extracting payment for their misspent youth.

Once the decline started, it happened very quickly. It was retiring from competition, so the body was only riding for pleasure, that caused it. The body slowed, the mind was not quite so sharp, the reactions dulled. The falls became more frequent, they took greater toll, they were no longer ‘bounces’ they were ‘splats’, the recoveries took longer, days not hours, months not weeks.

The Medical Fund asked if the body had been in a car accident, the injuries were so bad; the Police asked if the battered face was the result of domestic violence; the children didn’t know how to handle a Mum lying in hospital who looked like a boxer at the end of ten rounds

Once horses had been the reason for living, now they’d been the reason for almost dying.

Once the day started and ended with horses being fed and rugged; now it starts and ends with a cuppa and a stretch.

Once the saddles and bridles were soaped and polished every day; now they reside on their racks untouched.

Once the farrier was a regular visitor; now there’s been no visit in years.

Once the weekend competitions were trained for and planned months in advance; now weekends barely register

Once “Hoofs and Horns’ was the magazine seen scattered over the living room; now it’s “Country Patchwork”.

Once the horse float had transported the family all over the state; now it stores the kid’s excess furniture.

Once I was going to sell all the gear as this battered body no longer needs it; now it’ll go to my son who wants to start the cycle again with his younger, fitter, more muscular and more supple body. The family  addiction to horses continues.               

by Caroline Gaden  ©