The Horse in the Backyard: Memories of Comfort, Scents, and Loss

Growing up, we had a horse in our backyard—not ours, but a quiet, steadfast presence in our lives. We lived within the city limits, where horses and barns weren’t allowed, but this barn and its lone occupant, Honey, had been there long before the city expanded around them. Grandfathered in, Honey was allowed to stay until the end of her days, though the owners weren’t permitted to bring in any new horses. She lived a remarkably long life. We moved into the house in 1974, and by the time I graduated college in 1990, Honey was still there, grazing in her little patch of the world. I’m not sure exactly when she passed, but it wasn’t long after. By then, she seemed lonely—except when I was a child.

As a kid, I loved having her near. I’d run out to the fence line, gathering handfuls of grass with my hands to feed her, feeling the warmth of her soft muzzle as she nuzzled my palm. She was a calming presence in my life, a quiet companion who never judged, never criticized, never demanded anything. She was simply there, offering her gentle attention and accepting mine in return. I often think about her now, wishing I could bottle the scent of those moments—the earthy smell of hay, the faint musk of her coat, the warm, sunlit air of the barn. Scents have a way of pulling memories to the surface, don’t they? A single whiff can transport you to another time, another place.

For me, floral scents always bring back my mother. She spent hours in her garden, coaxing flowers to bloom, her hands always busy in the soil. Every time I catch the fragrance of roses or lilies, I’m reminded of her—her presence, her love, her laughter. She passed in 2006, and though the years have softened the edges of grief, I still miss her every single day. It’s strange how the smallest things—a scent, a sound, a memory—can make the past feel so vivid, so alive, even for just a moment.