He waits until dusk. The hills blur into a haze of purple. A solemn pull in the air tugs at him while his hands, stiff from cold and years, move over his old mare’s coat. Whispered words tumble out more from habit than need.
Her steps are stiff, her bones as worn as his. She gives him a sidelong look. He smirks, brushing her neck. And as pain flares in his knees, he lifts his leg and sinks into the saddle with a grunt.
One last ride, he tells her. Just to feel the land again, the open sky. They’re a sight now — both weathered and slow, stitched together by stubbornness and memory. His kids would tease him, maybe scold him, for being too bullheaded to admit this kind of thing isn’t meant for old men. But they don’t know. Not really. Not what it means to be part of the land, to feel a hoofprint press deeper than any footprint, to carry time in your body.
She moves slowly, but that’s alright. They take the familiar path that winds around the hill. The night smells of sage and dirt and cedar — he’d missed it. He remembers how she used to run. Strong. Fierce. Her hooves would pound the ground like a war drum. He grins as the rhythm still charges in his ribs.
Now, her steps are measured. Each one lands with a kind of reverence. His hand rests on her neck. His fingers thread through her coarse mane. He murmurs a soft thank you. Not for anything specific. Just for the years, for this moment, for making it this far. Gratitude rises in his chest, tangled with something close to grief.
He nudges her into a trot. His joints bark in protest. Her breathing is rough. They climb, slowly, and the trail narrows. The slope steepens. Stones shift beneath her hooves. She stumbles — his pulse surges. He grips the reins tighter, jaw clenched. The incline is steeper than he remembers.
Another step. She falters again, sides quivering. He leans forward and murmurs to her with a trembling voice: “Just a bit further, old girl. Just a bit more.” The trail’s edge falls away on one side — loose shale and shadow. For a moment, he doubts her. Doubts himself. His fingers tighten in her mane. They pause. She shudders.
Then she moves.
Slow, but steady. One breath at a time. One step at a time. He doesn’t dare urge her faster. Hooves drag against rock. His heart crashes through him like a blacksmith’s hammer.
And then — finally — the path evens out.
They reach the crest.
She stops — chest heaving. He leans forward and buries his face in her neck. Sweat and dust are shared. He exhales. Long and shaky. Then lifts his head and looks out.
The sky yawns wide. The wild stretches under stars that gleam cold and countless. He grips a fistful of her mane and holds tight.
A laugh leaks out. Quiet. Raw. Not triumph, exactly — but something close. A recognition. A release.
His lungs burn. His heart aches. But it’s full. He clutches tight to that fistful of spirit.
Mathieu Parsy is a Canadian writer who grew up on the French Riviera. He now lives in Toronto and works in the travel industry. His writing has appeared or is forthcoming in publications such as New World Writing Quarterly, Your Impossible Voice, Bending Genres, and elsewhere. Follow him on Instagram at @mathieu_parsy.
If you want to keep EDF around, Patreon is the answer.
