Tattoo.

Midwinter light slants down the meadow as you and your prized horse plunge uphill through deep snow. I don’t think to give thanks for each safe landing but leave and return from errands to find you strapped to a stretcher, neck braced, asking if Lily got hurt in the fall. Dirt on white sheets and in your matted hair. Shades of gray in the pelvic fractures angle just so on the X-rays. After the operation, your legs splay froglike under the sea-green gown. Nausea waves over me like new fear.