Better Late Than Never

A dusty beam of light shone through the broken window, landing softly on my fatigued eye lids. Of course I would have loved to stay in bed, but unfortunately my work was not about to do itself. I lugged my drowsy body from my old, creaky, twin sized bed and shoved my feet into my muddy cowboy boots. I walked down the hall, passed by my mother's lifeless and empty room, stopped to knock on my grandpas bedroom door to wake him up, then proceeded down the stairs. My grandpa always used to be the first one up. He would come quietly into my room, sit on my bedside, and gently lay his hand on my shoulder. Eventually I would roll over and see the light of day, and smile at the sight of his kind, old face.
For a while he was hesitant of allowing me to be the first one up. To allow me to be the one who made the coffee, got started on the barn chores, and woke up the others, but I fought him on it until he gave in. My grandpa was never too fond of change, but I figured it was the least I could do considering he has taken care of me for all of these years.

I poured him a cup of coffee and left it on the kitchen table, then walked out the screen door, hearing it slam back into its frame behind me. I then made my way out to the barn. It was a calm morning. Warm summer air, a subtle breeze, and a beautiful sunrise peeking out through the valleys between mountain peaks.
I went into the grain room and prepared all of the horses breakfasts, taking note on any grains we were running low on. Then, I rolled the grain cart out into the aisle, and started pouring it into the horses feed trays. This always got them wild with excitement. They would kick their stall doors, neigh and whiny, and throw their heads back and forth until they were given their breakfast. My mother always used to laugh at their funny habits such as that one. Once they were all done eating, I turned them out into their pastures two at a time, leading one horse on either side of me. After all of the horses were out, I started cleaning out the stalls. You would think most people would dread picking up horse manure on a Saturday morning, but I never seemed to mind. However, I did miss the voice of my mother making small talk as we cleaned out stalls. Now it seemed as though it couldn't possibly be more silent.
Once I had finally finished all of the morning chores, I went and watched the horses run freely through the open grassy plains as I stood on the bottom fence rail with my arms folded on the top one. I remembered watching my mother ride bareback through the same pastures when I was a little girl. She was my role model. Once she had passed away, my love for horses changed. Of course I still loved their company, and never seemed to mind taking care of them, I just lost the passion for riding. It was sad to think that it had been years since I had gotten back in the saddle.
I walked back up to the barn to sweep out the aisle, when I saw my old horse, Chance, standing there in the center of the aisle completely tacked up. I looked around to see who could possibly have come out here and put on his saddle and bridle, but I didn't see anyone. I walked up to Chance, took the reins in my hands and thought “well, better late than never”. I stuck one foot in the stirrup, and pulled myself up over his back. The moment I slid my other foot into the second stirrup, everything felt right. It felt as though she was still here