I’m not sure when Eloise’s obsession with horses began. Maybe it was when she was a toddler and we put her on a pony at Kiddie Acres. Or after watching Black Beauty dozens of times.
Regardless of the start, by the time she turned seven, she was hooked. She devoured anything on the subject – from movies, to books, to photos. She begged us weekly, if not daily, for her very own horse. She rattled on and on about how she wanted to live on a ranch and ride all day.
We could have easily squelched her dream and laughed at the outrageousness of the idea. Neither Chris nor I are horse people.
But we didn’t. We did quite the opposite. We embraced it. Encouraged it. Supported her. We threw her a horse Birthday party. We arranged for a horseback-riding lesson. And in a swelling crescendo of love, we signed her up for Horse Camp.
You would have thought that she had died and gone to heaven. Everything was pure magic. The setting was more idyllic than a Western movie. It was sweeping views and bluebird skies. The majestic mountains in the background and a worn-out barn in the foreground.
She loved every. Single. Second.
The night before her last day of Horse Camp, Eloise whispered, “I’m sad,” before giant tears dropped to her bedspread. She sobbed that she didn’t want Horse Camp to end.
It was like she knew that the dream was ending – and no matter how much she wished it to not-end, she couldn’t. The clock would strike midnight, and the fairy dust would settle.
I think that’s what makes such moments even sweeter. Because they don’t last. The experience ends, and you’re left with only the memory. The imagery and feelings snuggled in tight.
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