When I was seven years old, I got lost on a white horse. The last thing I saw was my brother trotting around the bend on his frisky cocoa ride. I was trailing behind the pack, losing ground quickly on a dusty road winding its way through the August Texhoma sun.

Clippity clop became a real thing that day. My horse wasn’t lost, I was. Comforted by the horse’s rhythm I began to relax my grip and settle into his next step. Every next step, feeling his massive weight shift from right to left underneath me. My fingers relaxed around the saddle horn. I soon dropped a rein. Though I knew nothing about horses I sensed this couldn’t be good so I swung my leg over the horn and slid down to get the rein. While sliding down, panic set in. I hit the ground knowing I was too short to get back on. My dad had thrown me up into the saddle.

I was about to start second grade. I was getting new school clothes, a notebook, and pencil box with a built-in sharpener next week. This horse was getting in the way of finishing vacation and starting second grade with Mrs. Unruh. I loved raising my hand and answering questions. But right now I was in charge of a horse I barely knew, a hundred times my weight and height on a road going somewhere.

I walked in front and slightly to the right of my white horse trying not to think about what he might do.

What if he gets thirsty? What does he eat? Will it hurt if he steps on my foot? What if he pulls loose and runs away, leaving me alone? Where will we sleep when it gets dark? Will he lay down? How will I hang on to him in my sleep? Will I get in big or little trouble if I lose this horse?

I walked on to the pace of his clippity. For a lot of clops.

I tried to sort things out in my head:  it’s daylight, not really a scary time of day, I don’t think I am worried, we are still on a road that goes where I last saw my brother, and surely they have realized I am really not with them by now. But my seven-year-old heart was starting to quiver. I could no longer hear the chatter of familiar voices ahead. And my skin was feeling hot like bacon. Sizzling on the top of my nose, my shoulders, the back of my neck.

I saw that the right side of the road was rising into a small bank so I started to slow the horse to a stop. I figured I could climb back on from the top of the bank. This was my way to get taller. I could drop down into the saddle. But the bank was crumbly, shifting, and I felt it giving way. I was trying to steady myself, climb to the higher part of the bank, and keep the horse stopped and centered, even with me. The bank caved. I was sliding into the horse’s belly when I heard my name. The horse stumbled to the side and grunted. I heard my name again.

My dad was searching but he was not the one who found me. His banker friend Jim did. He was a tall, thick-framed man with a big voice. I hugged him like he was my dad. He laughed to make me feel lighter inside. I was pretty sure he didn’t know anything about horses, but it didn’t matter.

I felt found.