The Mare

Ginger

That night after dinner, instead of a movie, I asked her if she wanted to go for a walk; she said yes. It was a beautiful night, with light still in the sky, the moon glowing behind slow-moving clouds. We could see the outlines of huge old trees against the soft-lit night, and the tall grass of the field moving gently, the fireflies. The road looked pale and glowing against the dense summer foliage. I could feel her taking all this in. I could feel her enjoying the lights of the houses set back from the road, the mystery of other people’s lives. At least I thought she enjoyed it the way I did, and I loved it that we could feel that together.

She talked about the horses. She didn’t say much in words — she liked them because they were nice — but her voice said so much else. I told her my sister had loved horses, but that I was afraid of them. She asked why I was afraid. I said I didn’t know. She asked if she could meet my sister. I told her my sister was dead. She said, “Oh,” and we walked quietly for a while. Then she told me her grandfather was dead. I felt my mother sigh through me.

We were almost home when she asked me why I didn’t have kids. I told her it was because I was an artist. I told her that if I’d had kids I didn’t think I could do art. I thought art was what I did best, and I should try to do it even if I never made any money.

She was quiet a long time after I said this. I felt her puzzlement and then her acceptance.

That night I read to her again—we read to her. Paul sat on the bed with me, and we passed the book, reading different characters: Paul the troll, me the witch. Her eyes were golden and shining, like she was in a scene from something on TV, which is how I felt too, like this was the good thing I had always wanted and never quite got.

Which is strange because I did get that. Our mother read to us when we were little.