Sweet River
It is eight a.m. on a Saturday in February, and I am mucking stalls in a small horse barn in Whately, Mass. I can already feel the soreness in my arms and shoulders. Next, I will fill hay nets and five gallon water buckets before walking Bugsy, a very stubborn white miniature horse, around the back field. I cannot explain my sudden need to be near horses after losing my little brother. I am broken.
On a whim, I answered a want ad for volunteers. I hadn’t worked in a barn since I was a teenager and led trail rides for little to no pay. At Sweet River, I slowly learn the rhythms of the farm and the habits of each horse, like how blue-eyed Rosie pulls at the crossties, how Buttercup likes her chin scratched, or the way she stomps to demand more attention. A roan American Walking Pony, she quickly becomes my favorite. Sometimes she leans into me while I am brushing her with a curry comb or she rests her head on my shoulder. I watch the farrier attend to hooves, and I duck as the barn swallows fly through to the rafters. Sometimes Annie from Oklahoma works next to me, and we talk about our lives. Once, the owners’ black cat sneaks into my car, and another day, she disappears altogether.
I hear there are coyotes in the field next to the river, so I am cautious with Bugsy, as my boots crunch through the layer of snow atop ice. I wish I could send my brother a photo of the coyote tracks. I walk with purpose, to remind Bugsy that I am in charge. I can see her breath and mine. She is not allowed to eat grass, though she is always trying to munch on what little green there is in winter. Sometimes that little horse stops abruptly, and I need to use coaxing words along with the lead to get her to walk on.
Today, the mares are turned out into their paddocks, all bundled up in coats. More than once, I see an eagle fly out across the river, riding the invisible thermals of air. Here in this quiet I don’t hear my brother’s voice or his laugh. That knot in my chest is still there, but so too are the horses, munching their hay in the cold morning.
Laura M. Furlan (she/her)
Laura M. Furlan is a creative nonfiction writer and professor based in Northampton, Massachusetts, where she lives with her wife, two kids, and a dog named Daisy; she is currently at work on a memoir.