When I was six years old, my entire family gathered in my grandparents’ country house in the eastern part of my country, the Dominican Republic. This was a big wooden house, brown in color, with a beautiful view from sunrise to sunset. I could see the birds fly and listen to the sound of the wind. My grandmother inherited this house from her grandparents, and she and my grandfather decided to create a place where they could spend time with their children and grandchildren. The house had two kitchens: one outside, where they cooked on firewood—something popular in the fields of my country—and one inside, where gas was used to cook big meals when family and friends got together. Everyone would party in one of the two rooms that had a cane roof. In the middle of the room stood a large wooden table. My parents, aunts, uncles, and cousins sat around it and talked about their jobs, personal lives, and plans for the future.

All my cousins ​​played games, but I always looked for a reason not to play. In this place, I had other plans—I knew that there were horses in the stables in the field behind the house, and I wanted to pay them a visit. While my parents and other family members were having fun playing and talking, I ran to the stables to see the horses. I started to open the heavy door to enter the stable, but a horse ran out of it like a wild animal. It kicked me in the right eyebrow and threw me down to the ground. My body was shaking, but I was so scared that I didn’t even feel the pain. I touched the right side of my face and saw blood on my hands. I ran to the house. When my mom saw me, she yelled that I lost my eye and began to weep. 

Now, I think of the anguish that my mother must have felt at that moment, but at that time, the incident did not stop me. I continued to visit the horses secretly, even just for a minute, hiding from my parents. I especially remember how my legs were trembling the first time right after the injury. But I couldn’t help it. The passion of being close to them was stronger than my fear. I knew within me that I could do it; I could make them used to my presence. I would pat their bodies and feel very calm and strong. I particularly loved one tricolored horse. Talking with her, I imagined that she talked back to me. I wanted her to see me as a friend. 

One day, I opened the stable’s door and saw my mom standing there with a belt in her hands. She had noticed that all my cousins were playing, but that I was not among them. Usually, as my partners in crime, they would lie that I went to the bathroom. But this time, she checked that I wasn’t in the bathroom. She figured out where I was. She hit my legs with the belt. 

Crying, I ran out toward the house and straight into my grand-mother’s arms. She said to me in a gentle voice: “For now, you can’t go to that place. It’s dangerous for you. But, when you’re older, I promise to give you the most beautiful horse in the world.”

That night she went to my room and asked me: “Why do you like horses so much?”

“Because they run,” I said. She smiled, gave me a kiss on the forehead, and left the room. 

The next morning, when we were leaving to go back home, my grandma, lovingly as always, said goodbye to everyone and gave us cookies, cheese, and chocolate for the road. Soon after this, she had a heart attack and died. I never returned to the stables and, for years, couldn’t think of or mention the horses again. After some time, my family sold that place. Ten years later, when I was on vacation with my aunt, she taught me to ride in the countryside. Since then, whenever I go on vacation, I go riding. When a horse carries me, I feel that I am not tied to anything and I am free like the wind.