One day I go with her to meet the horse. He greets me politely, with a touch of his nose. We stand quietly, listening to the rhythmic sound of the horse tearing at the grass. She watches, taking him in, memorizing him. She is getting ready to let him go. "How will you know when it's time?" I ask. "He'll let me know when he's ready," she tells me.
Every now and then he raises his head and looks at her and I can feel the current of love and trust between horse and human. "He'll always be with me," she says. There in the fading light, the air fragrant with late spring, the old horse crops at the grass and everything seems as it should be. And I think of Vincent van Gogh and his famous painting of the reaper in the wheatfield: "There is nothing sad in this death, it takes place in the sun, which floods everything with a fine golden light."