Horses Die Too

She sits half-bent into herself. Her two hands -- the hands that have worked the land, battered the drums, raised, fed, washed, held upright and loved two children, five grandchildren, and one great-grandchild -- are placed in her lap like two fragile and ageing birds, tired of air currants. Her eyes are distant; she blinks and speaks slowly; at times I feel it is a miracle that something is still tying her down to earth. Must be her inborn politeness and consideration for others. She is telling me the story of a horse.

"For a while we had a horse, Vitko. Your grandfather used him mostly for ploughing the land, when we weren't playing music in the restaurants. One day, Vitko fell ill. He must have eaten something bad -- he didn't digest properly, he couldn't release any stool, he was in pain. We didn't know what to do, there was no veterinarian; we tried walking him up and down the fields, hoping it would help, but nothing changed. The poor animal was bloated and in acute pain. And for us, animals were never just animals -- we got very used to them, they grew on us, they were almost like family members. In desperation, I resorted to the ultimate measure: I rolled up my sleeve, rubbed my arm with soap, and plunged it into the horse's anus to relieve him of the stool. It was only temporary help, however; after a short improvement, he got worse and worse, until he died. It was hard to watch him suffer, helplessly. It is hard even when a horse dies, let alone a man."

Or a daughter.

A burning-red wound gapes open where it is the most sensitive, exposed and vulnerable. I feel like stiching it up, covering up its spilling entrails with a scream -- instead, I am silent. I have no words to tell her.