Today the sky is a white shroud and we are still alive. We drive through empty fields. We drive through stripped forests. We drive in the rain in the dark and it is not in vain. There was a time she stopped leaving the house and shut all the doors. There. At the end of the path there is a paint horse against the drenched background. Pourrait-elle vivre sans lui? We circle him stroke his neck rub the soft spot under the mane between the ears. There was a time I did not understand. We’re falling in love with a horse. There was a time she shaved her head like an Egyptian shaved her eyebrows in mourning. My daughter leads him to the ring and I remember. There was a time she carved a horse’s name on her ankle and I did not scream.

text by Brigitte Byrd
image © Fortean Picture Library – Pascal Pinon alias “L’homme à deux têtes”