Memoirs

The smell of fresh-cut hay is one of my favorite smells. This is very telling of how I grew up as a kid. The smell takes me back to lazy afternoons in the hayloft above where my white horse dozed in his stall, occasionally whipping his tail about to fend off flies. As I drive down State Road 32, past newly mowed fields, the smell fills my car. When I smell hay, I smell leather; bridles and saddles. I smell fly spray, which always reminded me of the smell of Fruit Loops. I smell the distinct smell of sweaty horses and sweaty saddle pads.

When I drive past a horse grazing in a pasture, its face obscured in a mesh fly mask that protects its eyes from irritating flies, I can instantly remember the feel of the mesh in my hands, the faux fur that wraps around the horses muzzle and around his ears. I can feel the fine hairs of his forelock slipping through my fingers as I pull it out from under the mask. I can feel the velvety softness of his tapered muzzle under my fingertips.

As I continue to remember, I imagine hooking my fingers through his halter, and pressing my forehead against his, sans fly mask. I imagine the feel and smell of his breath as he exhales deeply. I can feel his upper lip working over the top of my shoulder, where my neck and shoulder meet, his whiskers tickling me.

It has been seven years since I watched a stranger's trailer take my horse away. It has been 12 years since I first sat on a pony and took a riding lesson. Yet I can remember those sights and smells, the feelings and textures as if it was yesterday.