I never thought we’d be at this point. Isn’t it silly? Because sooner or later we all wind up here whether we think we will or not.

Caprichosa, my old friend, the beautiful horse who saved my life so long ago, now finally getting, really, truly old at 16+.

And me pushing 50.

(Well, OK, older …)

The white andalusian arches her neck as we ride forward through the snow and the biting wind. I am amazed, even in her diminished physical shape, at the roundness of the horse, the rubenesque curve of her neck with all that mane lying on both sides, her backbone rising up beneath me in the absence of a saddle, her fringe of eyelashes catching snowflakes, one nostril testing the air. My legs wrap softly around her warmth. She's like a big heater. A furry furnace. An equine fireplace. I can feel her heart, beating, her breathe bellowing in her lungs.

We are wrapped in white. And it's flecked with bits of red, the earth over which we’re traveling. The wind is as flea-bitten as the mare. It stings my cheeks, sets the heeler dogs racing just out of reach of Caprichosa’s teeth. In the distance, the sun peeks through the clouds and illuminates the startled mountaintops for just a minute like a searchlight, penetrating the gray, piercing the veil.

What is god looking for, I wonder?

It seems that the mare’s hooves are no longer touching the ground as she makes a smooth transition from jaunty walk to trot. I place my hand on her furry neck, and realize I am as content here with Caprichosa as I ever will be anywhere.

We ride forward.