This guy greets the boys and I every morning on our run. He and his partner stand in the brisk air, grazing along, waiting until the sun peeks over the mountain to warm their bristly hair.

He reminds me that I was raised with horses. It's peculiar, really, how one can forget such a large part of who they are and where they came from. I was raised with horses. To say that even sounds foreign. But every now and then, when the smell of a dirty leather shoe brings back me back to removing a sweaty saddle blanket, or how I instinctively want to stick my hand into the oatmeal container just to feel the oats' texture upon my palms and through my fingers, like I did as I slowly walked them to the pasture in an old, rusted Yuban can.

If I allow myself, I can remember details of stuffing the stiff and dusty saddle bags for a long mountain ride or seeing my brothers and dad off for an overnight adventure, packing their sandwiches so carefully and tightly, holding the wax-paper covered Bit-O-Honey's in my hand, as if they were the most sweetest delicacy one could have.

It starts with one scent, one feel, or one sight.

Then their names come to me: Psalm, Kate, Plumb, Flash, Dollar--there were even more in my younger years and sadly, their names escape me.

It's somewhat disheartening to know that my children will have to get their first ride at a carnival or the county fair. That they won't know how to saddle up, put a bridle on, or even walk behind a horse. But what I have I can be grateful for and I will be sure to tell them stories of being bucked off, my Dad's near death experiences (there were plenty), and our family trips, in which the beasts came along.

For now, I just enjoy their presence as I run and occasionally stop to feel their strength that allows me to reunite with my past.