arena

The wind on his hair, caressing, but unfelt. The sun on the nape of his neck, warm, and nice, but unnoticed. The harsh whistling of the wind against him, the speakers blurting out things. It was all in the background, as if he were removed. As if he were asleep. There was nothing but the arena. Nothing but for three things. Him, his horse, his stick, were all one. The ball was another. The locations of other horses, a third.

The majestic creature between his legs was huffing and puffing, and he could feel the heart of the horse beating, could see the sweat glistening on his mane. He took a deep breath in, tasting the air, twisting the reins, directing the horse towards the ball. A mighty swing, his arm cutting through air as if it were butter, as if it were made for the air. Were made for this movement. Even tent pegging had never felt as good as this did. His chest, well, his heart leaping for joy, his boots digging into the sides of the horse, urging him on. Everything else was a shadow. This was his life. This was the life. 

This was his life. Soon, it would be taken away by adult things and adult responsibilities, and the tasks that the world required from him. Soon. But for now, this was heaven. This was tunnel vision. This was an experience he would carry with him for the rest of his life. Memories that would not fade, but with each retelling, further burnish themselves into his soul. Memories that felt more alive with each retelling. Fingers feeling the wind, nose smelling the watered mud, ears hearing the snorting and huffing, and the puffing of the horse beneath him, heart doing a little flip as it relived the experience.

For now though, he carried on. Swinging the polo stick with calculations that the most hard to please brown dad would be proud of - but for his. But that last was a story for another day. Swinging the stick, hitting the ball, knowing where it would go before it did, even though there were many bumps and indentations in the mud, even though there were so many variations, so many variables. It just didn’t matter. Nothing mattered here. His world was narrowed down, his world was contained within four white brick walls. His world was in the arena, and his world was the arena.

For now he saw nothing but the mud in front of him. Air cool on his cheeks, sun bright and cheery on his neck, his eyes were wide open, he was energetic, refreshed, as he had not been ever before. He could not recall this from ever before. This feeling was novel, and this feeling was fantastic. His toes twitched as he turned the horse. His back shuddered as he asked the horse to come to a jolting, jilted halt. He swung the stick, and hit the ball. He stopped. Screams. Gasps. Shattered the silence in his mind. He looked in front of him. He looked behind him. His brother was holding his cheek, blood dripping from his fingers.