horse-racing

Nothing is permanent, I tell myself over and over. Especially not a horse.

Vacations in my family are rare events squeezed between races. I can count them on one hand, and even those amount to only a few hours each. Shopping in Los Angeles. Sinking my toes into snow white sand in Florida. They are tiny slips of memory strung around horses.

When the striped pole slips by I slide low in the saddle and give Kali room to go. One moment she's bottled up, and the next she's a stream of copper, her chestnut mane smacking me hard in the face while her strides lengthen and everything becomes a droning rumble of hooves and wind.

No matter what, my chest always tightens up before a race. A rush of adrenaline spikes all the way down my spine, and it's like I'm right there. Right on top of Kali, squeezed in that metal stall, looking out at the dirt with my heart in my throat. The starter opens the gates, and the bell rings.

Kali has a habit of doing these beautiful works that never translate during the races in the afternoon. They call animals like her morning glories, or horrendous bets. Take your pick.

I'm bouncing up and down next to Beck, and his arm is around my waist because it's second nature to reach out and grab something during a race. To grab it and hold on, or shake it, or just feel that it's there and you can steady yourself against it to bring yourself back to earth when the race is done.

In that hothouse atmosphere, criminal records bloomed like orchids all around us.