The sixteenth of December (2012)

I made a horse from white clay. Small enough to fit her palm. I kept it white, no paint, no gloss – a raw horse, at risk of bruising.

I would give it to her in the night. Uncurl a fist, wrap her fingers around it. Yes. It would be as though it had always been there. Yes.

It had a snub nose, a short body. Not much tail to speak of. Perhaps it was not a horse, not really. Perhaps it had always been a donkey, and all my imagining could not make it a horse.

She loved it, regardless.