I’m eight years old. My grandfather holds my hand as we walk through the fair grounds. This is a new place; it smells funny and everything and everyone is so big and tall. I’m a little afraid but I trust my grandfather. And then I see it, painted gold and white, it glistens in the summer sun. It is beautiful and grand, so I let go of my grandfather’s hand; he asks me if I want to ride, and I couldn’t wait to try.
So I select my pony, the pretty white and purple one. She has pink ribbons in her hair and rhinestones on her halter. I climb onto the seat; it’s cold and hard. Then the ride starts, up and down, up and down, up and down. I hear the happy music and it’s exhilarating. I look back at my grandfather but he is gone, out of view, I’m all alone. The ride gets faster, and faster, all the other little girls are laughing and giggling but I am terrified, petrified, scared out of my mind. I hug the pole as tight as I can. I’m afraid the ride will never end; but it does, it always does.
I’m 17 now, I walk through life alone. I saw him like that merry go round that summer day. I picked him, or did he pick me? I was eager for this new adventure, it was fun and crazy. I wasn’t alone. I looked back on the life I had before; now I’m afraid to let go of him, of what we had. But the ride is over and my heart is broken.
