A familiar sound interrupted her:
The sound faint at first grew louder from beyond the hill to her right. She wiped away her tears and looked in wait.
She felt like closing her eyes and let its familiarity be her partial escape, for it felt like home.
Suddenly, she was a child again watching her grandmother make Toby, her stuffed horse, dance upon her knees. A blue scarf circled above her sweater and around her neck. Her brown eyes shone from behind the thin-rimmed glasses, while her hair bobbed as she sang:
“Clip-pity clop, clip-pity clop
This is the way the horses trot
Clip-pity clop, clip-pity clop
Faster, faster, faster… until they drop.”
Eyes closed still, Toby dropped beside her grandmother’s knees and her younger self’s claps.