by Gemma Nisbet
I would have been barely ten or eleven when we met. Her name was Ally and she had big brown eyes, thick black hair and a reputation for being moody. It was the classic beginning to any love story: wariness, even dislike on my part, indifference on hers.
Except that my first love was not a person, but a pony.
I floated three inches off the ground for the week after I first said ‘I love you’ romantically. I had said the words before of course, to friends and family, to my dog and drunkenly to strangers at parties, but this was different. This time the words meant something new and special. They had been a hot, prickly weight in my chest for weeks before I had uttered them; speech loosed them and left me unanchored, free from gravitational constraints.