The family reunion was three rain-soaked days, to be exact. You talked until you were bleary eyed, played a rowdy game of whiffle ball in the mud, wore ridiculously wonderful matching t-shirts that will no doubt be saved for posterity, and slept away two dark and deliciously chilly nights with the cabin windows thrown wide open. Made steaming hot cocoa for your husband’s nephew’s two somber-eyed little girls from Austin―one of whom, her mother says, dreams of horses―and told them that if they lived nearby, you’d teach them both to ride. Which seemed to please the tiny blonde beauties. You suddenly remember that you forgot how small your own two were until just recently.

The Amtrak purrs alongside of your car for a moment before disappearing into a canyon. You catch a glimpse of the purple-gray outlines of passengers in the observation car. They are the travelers.

But you are not, at this moment, as the car pulls into the drive. Your husband checks your urge to open the door and go running ahead as he steps outside to unlock the big ranch gate, saying, “Let’s all go down to see them together.”

At the house, the kids spill out of the car to greet Matilda-the-Tenacious-Heeler with her stub-tail wagging and wriggling, her black lips drawn back in a grin. Children and heeler slip ahead of you like a high-country creek over its rocky bed, down the worn path to the barn gate, where all five of them―Toby, Teyla, Miss Morningstar, Pinon, and Caprichosa―are waiting. Your husband strolls down the path behind you all, chuckling.

You didn’t know you’d miss a herd of horses or any place quite this much.

You're home.

Flickr photos: Montana Raven