I can’t tell you his name or show you a photograph; his identity a secret guarded by the Navy. I don’t have videos of his weekly progress; highlight reels set to carefully timed tracks, the music building until he takes his first steps without help. What I have is a story.
He showed up a few months ago, baseball cap covering the long scar left by a bullet last Christmas. Twenty-six and walking with the help of a VA therapist, he came looking for a way back. Back to being able to hold his son, back to running, back to a life undefined.
Twice a week he makes his way up the mounting block where he stands, arms out, while his physical therapist fastens a gait belt about his waist. His horse waits nearby in the blocks, head lowered and eyes half lidded. He closes the distance in two wavering steps, hands reaching to steady himself upon the saddle horn. He pauses, counting under his breathe, “one, two, three,” and swings his leg over.
Anger, and sadness, and frustration are chipped away by the steady beat of his horse’s hooves. The day comes when he earns a pair of reins. No longer a passenger but a rider capable of choice; left or right, walk or whoa. We head out the double gate and towards the ramp, pausing while he works his feet out of the stirrups. “Maybe it’s the man in me, but having reins was nice. I liked that.” A simple declaration.
He’ll get stronger and begin to ride without a gait belt. He’ll learn to trot and enjoy his first lap of independent riding. His physical gains will be measurable, boxes ticked off on his daily patient chart. On that day we didn’t give him reps. He’s a veteran, and on that day we gave him joy.
