Going into the tragic details of the death of her favorite horse, I could see her face and remember how she’d light up when Pancho in the pasture would see her and immediately trot over to the fence.  I liked that horse especially well.  He and Henry got along like brothers.  As I looked at Henry and thought of him dying, I began to register and feel the impact of her sad and sudden loneliness.

The blade of the shovel chipped shards from the black lumps and when the scuttle filled it felt as if it were filled with cement. “It’ll make you stronger,” he said before he left. When I complained of the knot in my shoulder he sneered at me and asked, “Are you a man or a mouse?” No point responding, so I accepted my lumps and felt his thick fingers poke bruises in my ribs so as to make me less of a complainer. 

I walk briskly to the altar to say my penance. On my knees, prayers cascade from my lips, salvation near at hand. 

Over the years, whenever one of my sons or grandsons tried to impress me with how tough he was, I would tell them a story about one man’s heroic fights to the death during World War II, a time when it seemed as if nothing good could ever happen. 

I’m brushing my teeth when I hear the crunch of tyre on gravel. Kyle looks startled when he opens the door.

‘Hi honey,’ he says. He tries to kiss my cheek.

I lean away. ‘You’re late.’

‘Sorry. Got stuck in an operation.’ He locks the door and bends to take off his shoes. ‘How’s bub?’