Memories of my injured horse

         There are few things I remember about the day my horse, Will, was injured; some moments are still sharply visible in my mind, and others are merely strange memories. I know that it was a lovely day - I had admired the crisp, fresh air. Fall is my favorite time of year for riding, as the slight cold alerts all of my senses. I was so distracted by the new colors that I did not notice Will until I was at the gate of his pasture, swinging his halter over my shoulder. When I finally rested my eyes on him, for a terrifying second, my brain jumped to the worst scenario possible; but I saw that although he was lying down, his head was raised.
         He was only rolling, I thought. How silly of him. I forced myself to walk to him, at a somewhat restrained pace, and I called to him in a voice that was perhaps too loud for normalcy. When I reached him, he snorted softly, and struggled to his feet.
         Right away, I knew something was wrong.
         That was when my world went mute.
         The colors in the trees that seemed so bright before were now dull. The sky turned a pale gray.
Magnificent whinnies were weakened, the goat’s braying sounded tired, and the joyous shouts of
my instructor’s children disappeared. The ex-racehorses in pasture six galloped frustratingly slow.
         Alex walked by. I shouted her name, but it was a whisper in my ears, so I screamed. She ran
sluggishly and it took her an agonizingly long time to reach me. All I said were two words, “He’s hurt,”, and
we walked him to the stable.
         I remember not being able to watch Will limp. I looked at anything but that.
         I remember having to ask Alex to wrap his hurt leg for me, and bind the ice in, because I didn’t seem to know how to anymore.
         I remember seeing my instructor, Farra, and explaining it to her. Her mood was ruined.
         I remember standing in Will’s stall and hearing Farra scream at my friends in their lesson.
         I remember thinking that it was my fault.
         I remember counting the number of times I asked Alex how soon the vet was coming. It was 17.
         I remember letting my thoughts drift and swirl around in my head as the vet explained what was
wrong.
         And lastly, I remember that the only thing that was not mute anymore was Will. He shone brighter
than ever. I stared at him for the whole night, taking in his close-cut chestnut coat, his strong build, his
spindly legs. I breathed in his familiar scent - most horses smell all the same, like warm dust, but I swear I
could pick out his scent anywhere. I brushed him for a few hours straight - even though he was free of dirt -
just to have something to do.
         I had the same memory playing over and over in my head. It was from a horse show in
Philidelphia, when I was talking to a random spectator who asked about my horse.
         “This is Will. He’s 11 years old, and a thoroughbred jumper. I love him. He’s perfect.” Sure, I had
been bragging. I was proud of him.
         I muttered that to myself when the vet was inspecting him. He looked up and asked me if I said
something. I shook my head.
         The news was terrible. Two months in his stall, and only then would I be able to ride him again;
sure, I could ride him, but Will would only ever walk, trot, and canter, for short periods of time. I can’t
jump him, under no circumstances, ever again. I knew what this meant. Farra told me she’d help find me a
new horse.
         After that, my memory changed.
         “This is Will. He’s 11 years old, and a lame thoroughbred lesson horse. I love him. He’s perfect." In the memory, I tried to say that he was perfect, but the word came out distorted every time.