That everything good is happening somewhere else?
Unlike her (darling girl, of fondest memories) the names of my past have been impossible to forget or forgo - but more than that, I never made an attempt. They were too dear to me, of too much importance and grace. Their names and faces have not begun to fade in my mind's eye, not even as the rest of my mental structures begin to weaken and crumble. There is something explicitly undeniable about those who have entered into my life - and suffice to say, this mare is oe I shall surely not deny.
Her tattered nose is buried in the folds of my mane before I have even the chance to answer her. There is no hesitation as I wrap my neck around hers, pressing my cheek to her thin withers and clutching her to my broad chest. She is crying, the warmth of her tears saturating my greying fur; another instance and my own tears are mingling with her tawny hide. We are awash in our revival, in our rebirth: the chaos of our aging bodies rejoice in having found a reminder of our youth, and of our wills to live.
She returns my greeting, then, untangling herself from my side. I run my mouth along the curve of her neck as she pulls away, lipping at her gently, unwilling to let any distance grow between us. But she sees, then, sees the image of herself decades earlier; and the distance is worthwhile.
"I could never forget you," I husk, and it's true. Despite my having another family, another wife, another life - I am a widow. Besides Kagerus, everyone from my past has left me. I know in my heart that Pomona is gone, and it is that knowledge that stays my guilt. I am an old man, subject only to the oncoming symptoms of death. In this moment, as I stand across from this beautiful mare whom fate decided to present to me today, I shall allow myself the grace of her presence, of her love, of her beauty. To pass her by because of a woman who has long since disappeared is beyond me - I am a dying man, and she is my life's last sip of nectar. She is a sign - that everything is okay, that I have done all I can. She is my permission to breathe, even if it be my last.
I pull her into my chest once more, a feeling of youth blossoming in my chest as I breathe in her familiar scent. Soundless prayers of thanks are uttered into her bedraggled mane, words that she cannot hear but which are soulfully delivered. Despite not having known each other intimately in our young adulthood, in our old age, that gentle connection has become a bond of an utmost fortification. We cling to each other, and trust confidently. I press my lips to her shoulder, pull her in close reassuringly, and then step back to meet her gentle gaze.
"Where have you been?" I smile a lopsided smile, my signature expression of gentility and calm - but in this moment of exhilaration, it is not signature at all, but rather original and life like and all too becoming of the happiness I feel. "And," I go on, amber eyes flicking anxiously between the two of hers, "Why do you smell like my daughter?"