An Essayby Roxana Robinson
Growing up, I was horse-crazy.
I thought about little else.
At school, I drew pictures of horses and wrote stories about them. At recess we all played horses, all the girls in second grade. Each day we described ourselves: “I’m a mischievous bay filly with a white star on my nose.” “I’m a curvetting chestnut mare with four white socks.” Then we trotted off, tossing our heads.
When I was in the car with my parents, I looked out the window and imagined myself racing alongside on horseback, keeping up with the car as I jumped over fences and obstacles. I imagined myself the rider and I imagined myself the horse: I watched for good pasture; thick, juicy green grass looked delicious to me. I watched for horse barns and riding rings. When I saw a horse in a field, I waved, covertly.