// so i'm told //

The horse, when my parents first saw her, had kids toddling underfoot. Unkempt bedhead grazing her belly. Small hands running fingers through her dangling tail-hair. Point is, the horse seemed docile. Her name was Penny, and my parents bought her thinking she’d be a lucky one.

A year and a half later, my mom was six months heavy with me, and Penny kicked her right in the back. My mom brushing her one second, face-down in the gravel the next. The upshot— a couple cracked ribs, a punctured lung, and scads of bed-bound weeks in the hospital. I saw a picture, once, from that time. My mom, IVed and unamused. Me, in her womb still, ballooning her wrinkled blouse. I’d like to think I was smiling in there. But truth is, I can’t remember.

In the end, of course, I was born. There were sighs of relief. Tears all around. Hugs from grandparents flown in from out of state. I shared a birthday with our neighbor across the street, an orange haired lady named Mrs. A. Given the months-long drama of the kick and its aftermath, she called me Lucky. She still does on the hallmark cards exchanged every time our shared birthday comes around.

When I was little, my parents told me about the horse they used to have. They showed me the spot in the backyard where Penny's wayward hoof had knocked my mother down. Then, lifting the back of her shirt, my mom pointed out the dent where the hoof had left its mark. With timid, curious fingers, I traced her snarlish scar, feeling her ribs underneath. I imagined the moment of impact. Pictured myself inside her, floating and unaware.

Nowadays, when I close my eyes and thrust my face sunward, I sometimes pretend the red through my eyelids is a view from that amniotic vantage. I try to forget the gravity of my limbs, to relive the weightlessness of pre-me. I wait for the kick, the slosh, something. I clamp my eyes shut and do my best to remember.