Riding a mountain trail, I felt surrounded by the beauty and tranquilly of nature, so enjoying a nice, serene afternoon. Wanting to seize the moment, I hurriedly snapped a picture of myself with the horse, the wide landscape reaching out behind us, and sent it right to my husband without thinking twice. It was supposed to be a basic snapshot of my day—nothing more than me, the horse, and the scene.
An unexpected note from him later that evening startled me.
I dismissed it first as a strange coincidence. Saddles could be antique, recycled, or have vague, meaningless marks. But that was not how my spouse perceived it. He was troubled and believed this was evidence of residual linkages to my past, not a chance occurrence. Eager to validate his feeling that the initials reflected a link seemed too near for comfort, he looked for someone who could examine the picture.
I attempted to justify it away. It could have been any saddle with any initials after all. For him, however, those two letters— “A.M.,”—seemed like unquestionable evidence that my past was nearer than I had let on.