She was at the booth next to me. Both of us offering hope in the best way we knew how. I displayed my words and art. She showed pictures of her horses. It was at a Hazelden Convention. I had never heard of equine therapy before. It was a world and weekend of firsts for me. She told me how horses are honest, and respond without pretense. They can sense emotions and mirror them back to us, offering clarity and awareness. Not having struggled with addiction, I rather felt like one of those horses, as they asked me, “How do you know exactly what we’re feeling?” when reading my poems and books. To be honest, I didn’t know I knew. But what was clear was, that in this world, we have a lot more similarities than differences, if we only take the time to listen.

My husband’s mother liked a break from her last residence, probably even more than we did. Inside, she asked if this was France. Outside, she knew for sure that it was. Lavender fields. The Sainte Victoire. Vineyards. Unmistakeable. We drove down a random gravel road. Walked when the path narrowed. I didn’t see it until I took the photograph. I didn’t feel it until I painted the image. The empathy. Was the horse reflecting her thoughts? Or mine? Dominique’s? I suppose we all knew that this would not be the final place. But it was a good place. And it wasn’t fear. And it wasn’t longing. We stood silent. Maned in peace. It was all ok. Everything was going to be ok.

How do I know? I sit in front of her portrait, and listen.