Instead I see the lightness of her seat, the ease with which she sits the two-beat gait. Her heels down and back in the stirrup irons. That small, straight back. The easy arch of the white mare’s neck. The softness of her jaw as she yields to my little girl’s hand.

J. grins at me, and for a moment I think of her rubbing her pudgy baby hands all over Caprichosa’s head with unadulterated glee. Was it that long ago?

At the bottom of the last long hill before home, she asks, “Mom, can we canter?” And I say, yes, of course you can.

Girl and horse unfurl in a banner of red and white—the two-sizes-too-small red fleece jacket with galloping horse appliqué that J. steadfastly refuses to give up; and the horse’s hooves effervescing in a silver blur beneath my daughter. Her legs suddenly seem longer than ever in her riding tights and boots.

My own horse shakes her head and blows meaningfully through her nostrils, letting me know that she’s impatient to catch up like we usually do. But I ask her to wait at the bottom of the hill, which she does begrudgingly.

Letting them go.

Flickr Photo Credits: oc girl; ashleigh44