She stares at her reflection, thinking how the time has passed, remembering days of long ago when she was but a lass.
A young thing, sitting tall in the saddle next to dad, listening to him spin his stories about the life he once had.
He taught her about ponies and trails and wildflowers in bloom, and talked to her sternly about avoiding boys and such doom.
Gathering the big herd, & loping across meadows of green, on matched black & white paints, she was just sweet sixteen.
She rode straight and true, right beside her old dad, all the while he thought, “that girl sure is a hand”.
He knew life would one day call her away to raise babies and a family with love, but in this moment, she was still his little dove.
Love did call, so she made a life of her own, raising babies and gardens and she watched her pony grow old.
She rode now and again, when she could find the time, between dishes and laundry and working full time.
She taught her kids to ride, just as her daddy had done, and told them stories of the buckles their Papa had won.
Life changed her from a horse crazy young girl to a woman with little time, and she felt she lost her edge; she had no rhythm or rhyme.
But deep down inside of her, that young cowgirl lived on, and she remembered who she was, and those days weren’t so long gone.
She pulled on her boots, braided her back from her face, while walking to the corral at a hastened pace.
The old paint nickered as she threw the saddle on. She tightened the leather and gave it a tug, grabbed a hunk of mane and swung right on.
Back in the saddle, she came to life. Air filled her lungs and the sun beamed on her face, letting the sound of hooves drum out the strife.
And she remembered her dad’s words while a tear trickled down her face : you’re the best cowboy girl that I’ve ever known, and you do it all with such grace.
Don’t ever forget who you are or where you come from. You’re made of mountains big and true, and may you always have a field of horses to bring out the cowboy girl in you.