A horse is a horse, of course.

My newly downsized mom (or rather mummy, as she is called, because she grew up in England and takes afternoon tea and all) has been into scanning old photos lately. She emails me a couple every other day, conjuring up bittersweet memories of a turbulent but eventful childhood that now seems a lifetime away.

This chubs here is me. I'm riding one of our first serious horses, Chocolate Chip, who was a sweet guy and was brought to the city with us for a while but never took well to the very active helipad next to the riding ring (Whose genius idea was it to put the two side by side anyway?) and thus was sent back to the country in a horse fairy tale manner. The scrawny one doing the peace sign is my kid brother, who I used to bully but turns out got the better genes and now towers over midget me at 6' 2". I think the pony was called Jaspar. She died young, so did Choc Chip. It's sad that I don't remember much about many of our horses. Depressing to think some arbitrarily got more love while others don't exist in memory or pictures. Sometimes I wonder if people fall into these two groups, too. And then I realize, that's stupid, of course we do.

Moving has a way of displacing cherished possessions and photos no matter how well you plan. I don't have many pictures left of my childhood, very few of high school - best years of my life - and none of college. It scares me to think that I took less that 3 pictures of myself and husband in the last year (we have thousands of the cat) and how fast time goes by and how quickly youth fades. You don't think that you're making worthwhile memories in your daily life, but I'm cornily realizing it's the everyday that matters most. I guess that's why country music was invented?

And a lesson learned today: a $6 super-stuffed burrito will make you pay for hours.