Unpacking the Pony

 It’s pretty amazing how one picture can take you there. Seeing a picture of my pony, Ringo brought back so many memories that I never realized I was still holding onto. He represents so many things in my life currently at 41 years old, and how could that be?

My dad bought Ringo for me when I was eight years old. He taught me how to put a bridle on a pony, to put a saddle on a pony, to brush a pony, to take care of a pony’s hooves, and a pony was fed and happy. Ringo represented so much for me. He was my happiness. He was a way to bond with my dad because I didn’t know how and I was always afraid of him, unless we were talking about the pony or the dogs. I loved how my dad would take the time to show me the right way to do things with Ringo, and to always be good with him. He showed me how to communicate with Ringo, and when I made a mistake with that pony, my dad would also show me why that was wrong, but he was never mean, and I never got punished. He only taught me the right way. 

I don’t remember the exact order of the way things fell apart. I remember being really really happy to have the pony and the dogs, the chickens, the pigs, and I know it was gradual, but it feels like one day all of it was taken away from me fairly quickly. My dad’s house burned down and he died and my mom was unable to take Ringo onto her property, so she asked my uncle if he could take care of him. I felt like Ringo was the only thing that was connecting me to my dad and my happiness after his death, and my mother would never let me go see Ringo. My mother might’ve let me go see him one time, and that was when I was able to take the picture that I have now. I remember asking about him relentlessly. I bugged her. I made her so angry, and finally one day she started to tell me ugly things. She told me that my uncle didn’t want us out there, and it would bother him too much so we couldn’t go. The next time she said he was so busy we couldn’t bother him. And another time she told us that he didn’t like us, and we didn’t need to be going out there. She shouted at me to quit asking. Then, I asked about him one last time, and she very plainly said “Oh, I sold him. We don’t have him anymore. I sold him for $300 to one of your dad’s old friends. I needed the money.” My heart was so broken, and I hated her in that moment.  Everything changed for me at that point because I decided that no one was ever going to hurt me the way that she did that day. No one was ever going to have power over me to take away something that was so precious to me.

Thirty-two years later, and I understand how that traumatized me. And how it was more than being screwed over by my mom. It was grief. Grief that compounded and created rules, stories and a new unhealthy existence.