Recollection

That horse was always there. Beside the stone wall, beside the thatched house, as if it had been there since before I was born. When the field was plowed, it walked alongside. When a child cried, it turned its head to look. When rain came, it breathed under the same eaves. I never once held it. I never once called its name. And yet, how strange. I never knew it would hurt like this. Because I saw it every day, I did not know I was seeing it. Because it was so near, I did not know it was there. So when I try to paint it, the brush stops. If I paint it too strongly, it is not the horse I know. If I do not paint it, it becomes as if that horse had never been in this world. After long hesitation, I painted it faintly. As if it were seeping into the background. Neither there, nor not there. Only that much. That is right. Memory has that kind of density. What was loved most remains the faintest. What stayed beside us longest is the first to lose its outline. I did not erase it. The horse, on its own, walked into me. Through the eyes, it entered so deeply that it can no longer be clearly seen. Now, with every breath I take, that horse breathes too.