Someone finally asked me
to explain Horse Girls. I said
Horse Girls are so much heavier than
they appear: the heft of their knowledge
outweighs what you think of as their
substance. The Horse Girl sees the
world in shades of bay and dun and
chestnut. When she reads the phrase
dappled sunlight for the first time she
tingles, understanding that even the
floor of the forest aches to be beautiful
like a horse can be. She knows to love
something is to respect its power. She
knows to love something is to respect its
boundaries. She knows to love herself is
to recognize what she loves and let it
name her. Some girls love dolphins and
the Horse Girl understands that’s weird,
but necessary.  She can entertain herself
on a road trip. She cannot believe the
Usborne Spotter's Guide to Horses and
Ponies fits so perfectly in the exterior
pocket of her vinyl bookbag. She sees
something ten times her size, and feels
possibility in place of fear. Its power is
not hers, but its kinship could be. The
horse is a universally-recognized symbol
of strength, speed, and fortitude; the
Horse Girl can braid its hair. She is not
practicing I can fix him but maybe we could
both be free. Yes, she wants a horse for
her birthday. She knows that she will
have precious few opportunities in life
to ride a horse, and so she takes them.
The county fair, the petting zoo,
Christian summer camp. And she
remembers all their names. Pollyanna,
Sugarcube, Genesis. When she sees a
horse out the window on a field trip, she
says “horse.” She feels pity for the
Dolphin Girls, who have to go all the
way to Florida for the simple pleasure of
seeing who they are. She collects
talismans, plush and plastic, heavy
horseshoes she hangs right-side-up to
catch the luck. She knows that one bad
break would end it all. If the part of her
the world values most is shattered, they
will clamor to put her in the ground.
Like a horse.
She refuses to eat glue, no matter what
the humane and modern ingredient list
says. She is not fooled by the line
drawing of the cow on the bottle. She
borrows every horse novel from the
library and, at nine, accidentally reads
Cormac McCarthy. She grows up
to love Cormac McCarthy. She grows up
and she is still smaller than a horse,
which she treasures, because she never
gets to feel small anymore. She
measures herself in inaccurate hands
and balks at the squeeze of breeches.
She still wants a horse for her birthday.
She can’t afford to be a Horse Woman
– she can’t even afford to think the
word equestrian – but she’ll always be a
horse girl, anyway, whispering palomino
when she picks up a box of blonde dye
at CVS, buying a silver chain for the tiny
tin horse charm that came free with
purchase at the Scholastic book fair. She
can remember the last time she rode a
horse (2014) and what the horse was
named (Serendipity). One summer she
got to swim with the dolphins and
couldn’t figure out why she felt guilty.
She wears her favorite t-shirt from
middle school, creamy Andalusians in
moonlight – not ironically but as a
beacon. She wants to find the others.
I know there are others, there must be.