I’d been out and had ridden a couple of times, but wanted Bob to see where I go on Thursdays. So on a gilded Sunday morning, Bob brought his camera and we went out to the new barn.

I grabbed Sophie’s halter and we walked to her pasture.

We were basking in the day before we even got there.

I traipsed through the pasture towards the four red mares, not certain which one was Sophie.

Here she is! Even though they all have white blazes, Sophie is the only one with no white feet.

I’m as happy as a child out here. Life doesn’t get any better than this!

Horseman Bob and sweet Sophie. She is very easygoing for a thoroughbred to which I credit the steady hand of her owner who bought her when she was four and has had her for nine years.

Sophie is perhaps searching Bob’s pockets for treats. Bob’s expression says, “What treats?”

Thirty years ago, Bob bought a chestnut mare with the same shimmering coat color as Sophie.

We named her Penny because, in the right light, she shone like copper.

Not long after Bob bought Penny, we traded horses and she became mine.

As I led Sophie up to the barn, another horse expressed interest, so I encouraged her to move along by flicking the end of her lead rope towards her rear end.

When I brushed Sophie, I noticed that she was sporting a few bites (pasture buddy nibbles) between her flank and the top of her rump. I did not notice they were framed by a heart until after we got home and looked at Bob’s photos.

The sixty-something acre property includes a fishing pond and a hay field.

There are horses of all different colors, breeds, and ages on the property, including several mules. This is a cute pony who came up to tell Bob “Hello.”

A pretty grey horse ambled over as well.

This is a Haflinger, a sturdy breed known for their amicable disposition. They do not get very tall, which is super nice for older riders—easier to get on and off, not so far to fall.

I believe you can see your soul in a horse’s eye. Fun fact: horses can see in two different directions at once. Each eye works independent of the other unless they are using binocular vision to focus on something straight ahead.

This is Sophie’s eye.

If you look close, you can see photographer Bob reflected in her eye. This would be the artist in the eye of the beheld.

Bob and I have been married thirty years. Like most couples, we worked, we raised children, we did the things that keep people on their toes. We hung in there, giving each other the benefit of the doubt, sharing the pain and the glory until the dust settled, until reaching the point where we have little strife and a whole lot of ease. Best of all, we still have each other to share it all with.

FINCA TRES EQUIS

On our second day in Turrialba, Bob drove the four of us to Finca Tres Equis an hour north of Arte de Plumas, where we met Alfonso, the man I’d been corresponding with, and our tour guide, Nicole. Carrie and Lyle started off on their two-footed hike as we prepared to mount our new four-footed friends.

I dwarfed Tadea, a pony-sized horse of indigenous stock.

Bob rode Mosqueada (fly-bit), a flea-bitten grey mare who refused to leave the barn until the grooms allowed her recently-weaned daughter, Lluvia (rain), to accompany us on the tour.

Once we got started, all went well. We rode with our guide, Nicole, a local lodge owner, and his young daughter, another enthusiastic equestrian.

Photo op at the top of the hill. How many shades of green can you see?

BRIGITTE RANCH

On our second day in Cahuita, Brigette met us at her ranch just a mile up the road from our hotel.

Our guide, Raul, took us a short ways down the road to Playa Grande, me on Fino and Bob on Fino’s aunt Fury.

As a child, Brigitte loved the fictional stallion, Fury, so when her filly was born black, she named her Fury. And, like all grey horses, Fury has grown into her grey coat and is no longer black.

Fino was a fine mount, calm enough for relaxing, yet frisky enough to be interesting.

As seen through Fury’s ears, Bob watches our guide, Raul, ride up Playa Grande on Fino’s mother, Sol.

Bob has owned this lightweight jungle guide shirt since 1997, when we lived in Belize, and has had his bright attitude towards life since the ’50s.

I had nearly cancelled the ride because of the storm, but Brigitte assured me that today would be beautiful and it was perfect.

Raul suggested we pose for a photo with the Cahuita shoreline behind us. I believe that is the tower beside our hotel growing out of my elbow.

Our faces are older, but we are still as capable of sassy banter as we were on our wedding day.

“Un beso,” said Raul as he backed away with Bob’s phone. “Un beso!” Bob wasn’t hearing him, so I said, “He wants us to kiss.” And so we did.

When we had nearly reached the swollen river entering the sea to the north, Raul turned with urgency and led us inland away from an approaching herd of cattle.

You don’t expect horses to spook around cattle, given the number of cowboy movies we’ve all seen, but horses find the idea of an animal that kind of looks like them but moves and sounds different quite unnerving. It takes some time for them to accept the weirdness of their bovine brethren.

I think most of us humans are equally freaked out by monsters that kinda-sorta resemble humans. If you’ve seen Sexy Beast, you’ll remember the unsettling bunny man from Gal’s nightmares. Imagine seeing a herd of these guys limping up the beach!

We sat a safe distance away and watched the herd with Fino doing his best to be brave.

Back at the ranch, refreshed and a little weary from our two-hour ride, we reluctantly said goodbye to our sweet horses.

When Bob retires, I told myself, he will take back the vegetable garden and start hauling the trash. Our garden had always been Bob’s domain—he of the big, green thumb—while I tended to focus on the flower beds, but I took responsibility for the veggies a few years ago when I retired and he dove into a demanding job requiring travel.

We had yet to buy the house before Bob and Lyle went to work transforming the ruined swimming pool into a place to grow food. When they were finished, Bob named it the Sunken Gardens of Moncure.

Trash, I’d always heard, was a man’s job, but for some reason, I never handed this chore off to Bob. In fact, I bought my Model Y mainly because it boasted seventy-two cubic feet of cargo space, nearly as much as my Subaru Outback. It also has the ground clearance to handle long gravel roads, making visiting friends and getting to the barn easy.

It makes me happy to round up all our paper packaging, cans, bottles, and garbage and leave it at the county collection center, that magic land of “away.” And, unless I’m in a big hurry, I take a peek into the swap shop, where people bring reusables like books and clothing. Many of our chairs and tables come from this shed of surprises, including my bedroom dresser and mirror and a giant braided carpet that covers the most damaged spots in our back porch Astroturf.

When I pointed out that new rug to Lyle, he beamed and told me how he had a hand creating the swap shops. Another score, a leather Norwegian designer chair from the ’60s, lived on our back porch for some years before we gave it to Lyle for his outdoor patio. We all agree it feels right to use cast-offs instead of buying new stuff.

It’s been too hot and buggy to ride this past month. Buddy and Gallen hang in the shade of their loafing shed, where the ferocious horse flies are less likely to feed on their tender flesh. I now understand why local horse owners haul up to Uwharrie, an hour away, to ride in the summer.

Meanwhile, my friend, Sharyl, rides with her friends all summer in Colorado, where the humidity stays below 50%. She sends me a picture of one of her friends’ new horse, who looks so much like Gallen that I feel a pang of longing for cooler fall days.

After Bob and I got home from the gym a couple of weeks ago, I made an impromptu trip to town, primarily to get rid of a piece of rolled, rusted fence. I had plenty of time, so I sauntered to the wooden shed for a look-see. I stood there for a moment, turned away, then walked back, picked up a large framed print, and put it in my car. I couldn’t resist, even though I thought it too big for our little walls.

It’s called White Horses, painted by Ricardo Arenys in the ’60s, and measures 22.5′ x 29.5″, not including the frame. I cleaned it up and hung it in the garage, where it made me silly happy every time I got in a car or took out a bag of trash.

I felt like I had a secret horse in the garage, just like the white horses I imagined lived between the boxwood hedge and our rental house on City Island sixty-some years ago.

Then, Bob, bless him—after the fourth time I mentioned how much I loved this painting—said, “You could put it on this wall.” We were lying in bed, talking like we do nearly every morning. Talking is Bob’s love language. That and rubbing my body smooth. He says, “Your skin is so smooth!” Then he waits half a beat before saying, “I think it’s because I rub you so much.”

“But there’s a picture there already,” I said, and of course, he said we could move it, which—silly me—would never have occurred to me. I pulled on a dress, fetched the painting from the pole barn, hung it, and lay back beside Bob to admire my prize.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not above buying new things for myself—just last week, I bought a new bra and a top-of-the-line immersible blender—but I long ago pledged to shrink my ecological footprint by recycling and reusing as much as possible. That, and the thrill of the hunt, keeps me returning to the thrift stores where I score almost new sheets, towels, and clothing.

And although I wouldn’t want to get my underwear from a thrift store or the swap shop, nothing beats a great find like the “White Horses.” Which, by the way, now hangs on our bedroom wall as if it were painted just for me.

We shared a meal and hung out in their yard, chatting while the kids played until close to bed time, and then we spent the night in a nearby hotel. Even though we were in horse country and I’d been oohing and aahing at the sleek thoroughbreds grazing on pristine meadows of  Kentucky bluegrass, I had no notions of eating into our road schedule by stopping anywhere horsey.

That next morning as I wiped sleep from my eyes and reached for my phone, Bob was already browsing the Kentucky Horse Park website. Then I noticed our sister-in-law, Darla, had sent a text the previous evening which said simply, “Go to the horse museum.” They were teaming up on me, making sure I didn’t miss out on an experience I would regret missing.

And so we found ourselves with an hour and a half to experience Disneyland for horse lovers.

Before I even reached the ticket booth, my face had broken into a cat-ate-the-canary grin.

We started our tour of the park inside The International Museum of the Horse, an Equine Smithsonian, brimming with horse art, lore, and accoutrements.

This model of a horse being lifted onto a ship was so lifelike, I stood underneath it and stared. Meanwhile, Bob galloped on ahead and was several rooms away by the time I stopped gawking.

I also got stopped in my tracks by a rearing horse and its human, both devoid of flesh, because it so stunningly illustrated the size difference between the two species.

If you’ve read Geraldine Brooks’ novel, Horse, you will understand why I had to pose with the portrait of Lexington. I’d read Horse in March and was captivated by its interwoven story lines, so I was thrilled when the museum clerk told me both the photo and the bones were here.

Horse fictionalizes the true story of a famous race horse whose bones went on to live at the Smithsonian. The story jumps back in time to Lexington’s birth and career with focus on his trainer and the many obstacles that young man faced as a slave, his relationship with the artist who captured the horse in oils, and forward in time to the woman who put Lexington’s bones together for the museum.

Back outside, we encountered a large globe welded from horseshoes.

As globetrotters and equestrians, we were naturally drawn to the horseshoe globe. Plus, I felt compelled to share a photo with my horse buddy and art welder, Sharyl.

We spent some time in the breeds barn before walking over to the Mounted Police Barn.

I am pretty sure it was the mounted police of New York City that sparked my horse addiction. It took my breath away to see horse and rider weaving their way through traffic or trotting across a public park. And when an officer rode up and asked me, a tiny grade-schooler, if I would like to pet their horse or perhaps sit up on it, I was forever smitten.

This is Henry, an eight-year-old Spotted Draft Cross (probably Belgium and American Paint) who came to the park at two months of age.

Many of the horses were catching a little lay down on clean bedding after breakfast and a bath, and before working their exhibition shows. Bob and I would be gone by the time the shows started, but it made us happy to peer into the stalls at these beautiful, well-cared for animals.

This is Junior, a 1700 pound American Cream Draft, a breed I had never heard of or seen before. Like many of the others, he was catching a nap. Junior is nine years old, was previously employed at the Breeds Barn, and is learning to be a police horse.

Officer Sedlaczek was bathing Billy, an twenty-two year old Gypsy Vanner who also came over from the Breeds Barn. She was happy to answer our questions and pose for a photo, and I probably told her the story about my young self falling in love with a Bronx police horse.

On the way back to our car, I paused to admire a bronze Morgan horse. The Morgan is one of my favorite breeds because of their superior intelligence and ability to emphasize with we humble humans.

I recall one memorable bareback ride on a sturdy little Morgan gelding when I was in my twenties. We were traveling at a good clip over a construction road on the prairie east of Denver, when I felt him consciously level up his back as we cantered around a bend. I thought I’d imagined it, but he repeated this maneuver with each subsequent curve, proving that he was making a conscious effort to keep me from sliding off.

I probably shared this story and others as they bubbled up during our long drive to Columbia, Missouri—all prompted by our visit to the Kentucky Horse Park. Bob was, of course, happily engaged as one might expect from a supportive and loving spouse. I also let Darla know how much I appreciated her prompting. They knew before I did, that it would have been wrong for us to come to horse country without dipping our toes into this vast pool of equine lore.

She became one of those girls, wild-haired, lightly holding the ends of her handgrip tassels as if they were bridle reins, perfectly balanced on the bicycle seat as her legs moved her forward. The girl who trotted—knees pulled up high—around the yard and galloped through the woods with a branch held close to keep herself from balking at a log that must be jumped. The girl who nickered and whinnied whether alone or traveling with a pack of friends.

A girl whose voice was often answered by real horses.

I was that girl. I had a collection of porcelain horses that stood sentry on their long, glue-seamed legs—gifts from family near and far. I groomed the white-flocked horse my grandmother had given me twice a day, wiping his coat smooth with tiny strokes and combing out his silken tail. I tied a shoelace halter around his face and used a toothpick on his tiny hooves.

Dad brought home books about horses which I augmented with trips to the library. I read Black Beauty, The Black Stallion series, and all of Marguerite Henry’s books. Mom let us watch Roy Rodgers, My Friend Flicka, and The Lone Ranger. And when I turned seven, they took me into the Bronx for my first riding lesson.

I did well enough to earn birthday lessons for the next few years. Meanwhile, when my Nana came to fetch me from school for a weekend at her place, she would drop me at the barn to ride while she ran errands.

My Dad’s cousin Tommy—an artist—would bring me art supplies and books on how to draw horses. I drew and drew and drew.

By the time I was on my own, I could ride just about anything, and horse owners would tell me, “Come ride whenever you want.”

At some point, I started earning money. I groomed race horses and breeding farm yearlings and picked up a few backyard gigs where I would show up with my gear and school a green horse. I bought and trained my first horse when I was thirty-three and began giving riding lessons on him. And I worked as a jungle guide and a wrangler.

Most recently, I’ve been working with Buddy and Gallen—Olivia and Allen’s horses—each a joy to ride and becoming more responsive to weight cues each week. Step hard into one stirrup, and they swing into an arc. Step into both, and they stop and stand at ease. My goal, as always, is to have little need for reins.

When I took up with Bob, he stepped willingly into my horse-crazy world. We rode the packed-earth county roads together after work or took out at dusk to lay back across our horses, scanning the dark sky for meteorites. We’d ride twenty miles searching for wild asparagus and, once, we galloped into town to ride in the Corn Roast Parade.

We picked up a used endurance saddle at a tack sale the other day, the first saddle we’ve owned in twenty-five years.

Bob plans on using it on Gallen, Allen’s gray Percheron cross. I picture us riding together down pine-shaded trails and cantering across Allen’s hay fields.

Each time I place my hand on a horse, I feel at home, centered, and appeased. It’s good when you find a way to express your passion and, even better, to share it with your best friend.

For a peek into our many equine encounters, check out our Horse Album.

My hand shot up. Call me an eager beaver, but when I saw him—big and black—and heard he was part Friesian, I was fixated.

The drive out had been pleasant. Thirty miles of undulating asphalt, leaves starting to turn. I parked and stepped into a quiet landscape—fences and pastures with red outbuildings—and I felt at home. I inhaled, catching the scent of something fruity from a nearby grove of trees and perhaps a hint of dried manure.

An hour later I stood, helmeted, in my new paddock boots atop a mounting block staring at Armani’s broad back. What had I been thinking? How many times have I said, “I like ‘em short; not so far to fall.”

When asked us to mount up, I swung my right leg high and mostly succeeded in not bumping the horse’s back. I looked down at my classmate, who stood at his head with her hand on his lead rope, leaned over, and whispered, “I’m surprisingly nervous.”

“Well, it’s been a while,” she said. “You’ll do fine.”

We had paired up and would take turns, one riding while the other led the horse. My buddy would walk beside Armani and make sure neither of us did anything crazy. I held no reins. This would be an exercise in trust and balance—trust in the horse, trust in my partner, and trust in my ability to stay atop a moving animal. Look, Ma. No hands!

Deep breath. I had gotten back on the horse. I was as chuffed as I had been twenty-four years ago after absconding with a rented camel. I hadn’t meant to steal the animal, but the handler had taken her hand off the lead and I wondered what would happen if I cued the camel to turn and walk away.

Our instructor brought my attention back to the present. First, she had us do some limbering exercises. “Reach out with your right hand and touch your horse’s poll. Then swing to your left and touch his back behind the saddle. Now let’s stretch the other side.”

Despite the walking, the yard work, and the daily yoga, I felt a twinge in my left hip, deepening my anxiety. All my life, the girl who’d jump on anything, come to this.

My ground crew looked at me over her right shoulder, her gaze saying, “You’ve got this.” I nodded back.

Our coach soon gave me more to think about than my misgivings. We would work on transitions: walk and stop, walk and stop. Our partners promised not to interfere.

I filled my lungs, leaned slightly forward, and the horse began to walk. When it was time to halt, I exhaled and sat down. It worked, and my partner was quick to say, “I didn’t do that. You did.”

How fun! Soon we were braiding our horses around a series of orange cones using only our seat bones, shoulders, and legs. Midway through that exercise, I realized my trepidation had vanished. I had lost myself in concentration, in Armani’s giant stride, and in the blue sky above.

Our guide to empowerment was turning our group of equestrian wannabes into confident riders. But, beyond that, she was showing us how to love and respect her beloved animals.

How must it feel to transform so many lives? No wonder this woman is always smiling. Holy cow! I’d be grinning too. I am immeasurably grateful to Deborah for kindly sharing her horses and know-how when I needed it most. In a day or so I’ll be paying it forward, teaching Olivia, my own student, how to balance and trust, and showing her the many ways to love a horse.

I had not seen Allen’s daughter, Olivia, in years but remembered her as a respectful, intellectually-curious young lady. And now she was a grown-up seventeen, ready to take on horse husbandry.

“Are you asking me to go horse shopping with you?”

“Yes.”

“Count me in!” I said.

It had been six years since I had any meaningful involvement with horses, but this year, I told myself I would get back in the saddle.

So I contacted several riding establishments in February and found only closed doors. None could give me riding lessons regardless of what they had posted on their websites. I gave up.

After a long, dry summer, I decided to resume my search, and now opportunities were raining down.

“Also, would you be willing to give Olivia riding lessons?”

I fumbled a head of cauliflower, just barely catching it before it hit the floor.

“Wow! Yes! I’d love to!”

On the big day, the three of us rolled into Intercoastal to find a diminutive zebra tied to one of two hitching rails, whisking at flies. We blinked. Can this be for real?

The young proprietor, Isaiah Boyd, strode our way in cargo shorts and knee-high muck boots, his blonde hair cut summer short. Allen stepped forward, they shook hands, and Isaiah steered us towards a covered pen with at least thirty horses—mostly drafts—jostling for a turn at the hay feeders. He pulled out a kind-eyed, black draft mare and tied her to the rail.

“Look around,” he said, “I’ll be back,” and went to service a second cluster of soon-to-be horse owners.

I stared up at the mare, her massive neck and withers well above my head. Somewhere on the other side, Allen and Olivia were doing the same. I walked around the back end of the horse to find Allen grinning. “Yeah, this one’s a bit too tall,” he said.

Our criteria were as follows:

• Height: 14.2 to 16 hands (4’10” – 5’4” at the highest point of their back)
• At least one needed to be big enough to carry 200 pounds
• Between 8 and 18 years of age
• Dead broke

When Isaiah returned, he helped us choose a chestnut gelding with a white splash running down his face. “Would you be willing to take him to the barn?” he asked, while he went to catch a palomino mare. I grabbed the halter, breaking the rule about always using a lead rope.

The red gelding was placid and easy to handle, until he spotted the striped alien—the zebra—and then he dragged me in a perfect 180. I hung on, talking nonsense in that soothing tone we horse people all think works, until he calmed down enough for me to coax him over to the other tie rail. Isaiah handed me a lead rope, and I secured the poor fellow, taking note of his dinner-plate-sized feet. Then, with a flourish, Isaiah whisked the zebra away to the other side of the barn.

Later, when I asked Isaiah about the zebra, he said he paid $10,000 for him and regretted the investment. He’d bought him to stimulate sales, but the horses were all wigged out, and he needed to sell the little guy. I was sorely tempted to hand him my American Express card but knew we’d never get the other horses home if we threw that zebra into the trailer.

Indeed, after watching the red horse drag me around, Allen shook his head no when Isaiah asked if he should saddle him up. Next we ruled out the palomino because of her long back, a liability in an animal that carries you on their spine.

Apparently, we were going to be higher maintenance than hoped.

Done with the drafts, we asked if we could shop the large pen of finer-boned animals on the other end of the barn. So we marched through the barn and past the zebra.

Isaiah pointed out the horses that qualified as beginner material, and we huddled a few feet away. “How about those two?” Olivia asked, pointing towards two greys, and as she said this, the horse on the left swiveled his ears forward and began walking straight towards her. “He’s a beginner horse,” said Isaiah, “Should I bring him in?”

In addition to the grey, we picked a fine-boned bay gelding, and when Isaiah went to fetch him, I walked over to pat the zebra. The tiny beast rolled his eyes and lifted his head, mouth opening and closing, but not all the way—clacking— like a foal appealing to the mercy of its elders. A clown, I laughed.

Isaiah saddled the grey, put him through his paces, and invited Olivia to climb on. They looked made for each other. Then he hopped onto the bay bareback and showed us what he could do. Satisfied, Allen pulled out his checkbook and Isaiah loaded them up.

Olivia named the grey Gallen (Gay-lin), and we kept the bay’s given name as Buddy.

I’ve been out to see the four of them several times since, my mulch pile at home, untouched, my kitchen running on fumes. I will bake later, I tell myself, or (gasp) I could swing by the store and pick up a loaf of bread like an ordinary human.

This is once-in-a-lifetime stuff—a fairy tale of wish fulfillment—and I’m not letting wheelbarrow or apron stand between me and my new paddock boots.

Spring Song may well have hung in my Nana’s home. At some point I stumbled on a print and brought it home. Rumor has it that the little girl is Glücklich’s blind daughter and that the the child has her eyes closed in the original painting.

A robin sings from a bare birch branch cast in muted light with only a muddy hint of spring. The girl is wearing a brocade jumper laced in green, sitting on a bench, her face turned towards the bird.

In Spring Song, I see the spirit of my Nana and am filled with gratitude for her and for my happy childhood days at her house. As I drift off to sleep at night, I look at the little girl and see myself as the pampered little girl. I feel the spirit of my childhood as it connects with Nana’s childhood, she as much the little girl as I am and the two of us connected in a sense, to all the little girls of the world.

Bob took a photo of a Blue Heron as we were canoeing down the Myakka river in the early ’90s, and later painted it in watercolor. It is one of his best early works, definitive proof that he does have artistic talent despite what he heard as a child from the adults in his life.

There are several ghosts in this one. There’s the spirit of my mother’s intrepid cousin Beverly, and of Bob and I at that heady moment, pivoting to leave Colorado, madly in love and ready to eat the world. And there’s the tug south, that yearning for the tropics, a spirit which will never die.

How cold it was in Colorado the day we left for Sarasota—15°F below—and the car wouldn’t start so we called a tow truck or a cab. How fresh the thick Florida air from Beverly’s screened porch, teeming with spring, no ice or snow in sight, only alligators slipping from the shallow beaches where they’d been soaking in the sun.

Beach Birthday, by Bob January, 2022 depicts the Topsail beach Bob chose for celebrating his birthday. It highlights a moment in which Bob is sitting on the veranda gazing out at the waves and at his wife lying in the sun after a swim.

The spirit of this picture is my love, Bob, the barefoot boy who speaks Twi and identifies with the fish. The man who transported me to four different tropical islands to live in heated splendor. This is us at our best, relaxed, with salt water licking at our ankles.

Tall Boy’s portrait of Little Corn Island’s cliffs has of course, captured his spirit, his quiet presence, towering and just. And by extension, his wife Maribel and our months there in Nicuargua, our Thursday snorkels, the ruined coke boat, the beans and rice, the pistols, the coconut palms, and the dogs.

The etching of Seabiscuit holds the spirit of my cousins Frank and Mark, and our childhood together in the neighborhood they shared with our Nana. It invokes memories of summers on the lawn, of playing pick-up-sticks on the dining room table after Sunday dinner, and of the Stone Church Fair where my little cousins bought this print with me in mind because they knew how much I loved horses.

Seabiscuit summons those sublime and safe years, all the magnificent food, the strawberries and cream beneath the shade of the big oak, the chocolate chip cookies, tetrazzini, poppy seed bread, potato leek soup, and English muffins drowning in butter. Here are the night crickets, our skinny beds beneath the looming screens, the dogs chasing through the leaves to the top of the hill, and the drone of a lone motorcycle near midnight.

Here are the roses and the tomatoes, the chives, the living room dancing with light from the prisms, the jade plant on its own table, the porcelain swan, wings arched over a keepsake bowl on the cutout shelves between Nana’s green chair with its matching dial phone and the dining room table where stories were told and olives placed on fingers.

This photograph of Jesse in his green halter—the halter Julie brought me the day I brought him home as a two-year-old—tied with the end of a lead rope for riding, conjures Jesse’s spirit. He is turning to look back, ears focused on something about to happen, coat shining with summer, his eye as deep as a well. Here I see the spirit of Bob and I galloping across the fields, eyes stinging from the wind, in a gait so smooth we could have passed a glass of wine between us. I see pride, solace, joy, and freedom.

We called him the wonder horse, the best there ever was, and god bless Julie for giving him the greatest gift, a fine home after we decided to leave the country for Belize. Julie welcomed him, pampered him, and gave him a beautiful, long life. Jesse was my first horse—a childhood dream realized in my thirties. I trained him myself and he was the envy of my friends. There wasn’t anything he wouldn’t do for me. If I told him to step off a bridge, he might have done it. And he saved my life at least once.

Our first marriages hadn’t worked for either of us, but now, putting hope over experience, we were keen to give it a second chance. Our families struggled to understand. One brother spoke the words everyone else was thinking. “I hope your love will stand the test of time.” Another brother warned that if we went through with the wedding, we would become the objects of pity and disgust.

I won’t lie and say it was easy. At 40, I was carrying a significant load of baggage. There were legal and financial swamps to navigate, patterns to unravel, and encumbrances to shed. We loved each other fiercely, of that there was no doubt, and so we soldiered on. Our many friends embraced us and provided wholehearted support. In the evenings and weekends, we saddled our horses for brain-cleansing rides, ambling down hard-packed county roads to the sound of meadow larks, poking around the flood plain stirring up magpies, and flushing long-tailed pheasants with gallops along the edges of winter wheat fields.

We had been feeling stuck when Bob awoke from his inflorescent dream. We felt as if we were in a dark forest, thwarted by obstacles, bumping into one tree after another, having to back up and go around, all the while striving towards elusive patches of sunlight. We held onto the golden meadow image and kept inching forward.

A wise friend told me that when we join hands in a relationship, we begin walking down a road together and that although that road is often smooth and wide, it sometimes narrows into a cold, rocky place without a trace of a trail. “The important thing is to hang on. Find your way together. Don’t let go.”

Twenty-five years later, I look over my shoulder at miles and miles of open plain, that tangled wood so far in the distance, I wonder if it ever even existed. Open grassland, moonscape, narrow trail, and wide-open road; we have galloped and trudged over every kind of landscape, hand-in-hand, determined to stand the test of time. The life we’ve built, the goodwill we have garnered, the warm and constant flame of love we’ve nourished—all are proof of love manifested and a life well shared.

And for good reason. My Mom and Dad are at a cross roads in their transition from independent to dependent. Opinions about what to do or what not to do are flying over the Ethernet, from IP to IP, bouncing off modems and cell phone towers. I’m on the phone a lot with my parents, my brothers and sisters-in-law, the nursing home staff, and retirement communities. Bob bought me a fancy fifty dollar blue tooth to pair with my little dumb phone. It fits perfectly in either ear so I can talk while driving, pulling weeds, folding laundry, and making scalloped potatoes.

Bob has been great, always willing to listen to the latest blow-by-blow in the Mom and Dad Dance, a dysfunction we brothers and sisters have been battling since Mom’s car accident eleven years ago. Mom was 75 and Dad, 86 when I implored them to put their affairs in order, draft living wills, assign their Power of Attorneys, and choose a retirement community.

My father made it known to all six of his children that his fiscal responsibility ended the day we turned eighteen and we were to move out and find our own way. No college for us. Most of us left home when we were seventeen rather than wait for the ax. In this way, he said, he would prevent us from shouldering the burden of their elder care. And although over the past eleven years my mother has been in need of appropriate housing and care, she has refused to ask for it, and Dad has not volunteered to open his wallet. They are still saving for their old age.

Like as not, I look the same as always. Strong and full of purpose, chopping greens at my kitchen counter, walking the neighborhood trails, showing up at community events, cracking lame jokes, and cranking along with my wheelbarrow.

You might not notice that I’m struggling to stay in the saddle, but I can tell. I’m not sleeping well. I’m having trouble getting started. I don’t feel like talking to anyone. My mind doesn’t want to stay on topic. Thank god for my To Do list or I’d just sit and stare at that bluebird on the pear tree, bright against the tiny white blossoms.

It’s easy to be off-balance as my parents teeter from stable to unstable, from healthy to sick, from alive to barely hanging on. There are at least ten of us, the people I love most in this world, trying to ride this beast, all twisting this way and that, all doing our best to stay in the middle, not sure whether to ride hard or soft.

My biggest fear is not that my parents will continue making it hard for us to help them, or that my mother will die a painful death, because we siblings and in-laws have little control over how Mom and Dad decide to live out their the rest of their lives. All the hand-wringing in the world won’t suddenly take their fate out of their hands. They are both still cognitively alert and fully in charge of their finances and medical decisions. No, my biggest fear is that one bad wobble will lead to a fall and my relationship with my brothers and sisters or their relationships with each other will suffer irreparable harm.

So, despite feeling a little less “here” than usual, despite my desire to self-exile from everything, despite my fears that the Mom and Dad Dance will set off an avalanche that leaves my family buried in hard feelings, I need to keep on making those calls, answering emails, and showing up for everyday life. I need to behave as if all is well, lie with my seat, convey a false sense of calm to the beast I’m riding and usher us both, unharmed, into calmer terrain. No matter what happens ahead, I need to stay in the middle of the horse.