>My sister called me the other morning. (Not this morning, but you know. . . the other morning.) She had dreamt about getting a horse named Gus. She didn’t know a horse named Gus, but still it didn’t mean the dream was wrong. Mary believes in dreams.
She was the little girl in so many nursery rhymes.
Mary had a little lamb.
Mary Mary quite contrary how does your garden grow?
This Mary, my sister, might have replied,,“with all the pretty horses lined up in a row.”
She was the little girl who wanted to be a horse. It shouldn’t have been impossible, afterall–we grew up in the country. Hills and a wild river. Plenty of room to run and chomp on prairie grass.
As kids, we didn’t understand that just because we lived here we could not have horses. We didn’t own the land. But, my little sister reasoned, she could pretend to be a horse.
The path towards a horse is typical. Our paths are not short. Albeit woven through periodic green pastures, the path is unbeaten and at times desolate.