Testy Pony by Zachary Schomburg

I am given a pony for my birthday, but it is
the wrong kind of pony. It is the kind of
pony that won't listen. It is testy. When I
ask it to go left, it goes right. When I ask
it to run, it sleeps on its side in the tall
grass. So when I ask it to jump us over the
river into the field I have never before
been, I have every reason to believe it will
fail, that we will be swept down the river to
our deaths. It is a fate for which I am
prepared. The blame of our death will rest
with the testy pony, and with that, I will be
remembered with reverence, and the pony
will be remembered with great anger. But
with me on its back, the testy pony rears
and approaches the river with unfettered
bravery. Its leap is glorious. It clears the
river with ease, not even getting its pony
hooves wet. And then there we are on the
other side of the river, the sun going down,
the pony circling, looking for something to
eat in the dirt. Real trust is to do so in the
face of clear doubt, and to trust is to love.
This is my failure, and for that I cannot be
forgiven.