A horse that works or a working horse.

We picked this up from a ‘dealer’ who hated being called a rag-and-bone man. His entire flat was packed to the ceiling, there could be no walls because boundaries were defined by whatever space was left.

There was one room similarly packed, but lesser so, which had a rocking chair on which his wife sat. She was the love of his life he let us know I forgot how, but I cannot forget she spoke English you did not expect from his horde.

At that time we still made ‘fashion’ so we gave a hoodie dress with bear ears to her, for she looked small and cool enough to fit our small, insensible clothes.

Can you imagine a flat without floor but hoarding the memories of every other place that light could not address? The place was bursting with lament and song.

He told us to be quiet so as not to wake her, who slept all light and when dark would dress *nicely* to go downstairs.

We left with the things we were always excited to pick and hitched a ride in his pick-up back to our fathomable lives. One day between then and today the horse broke its ear.

Her name was Alice and she resided in this wonderland she understood. Partly because she spoke English well and was slight and pretty and once very vivacious. Partly because she was there to show him love’s flickering light.

Many years later we got into a Grab and he told us she had died. Yes, just like that. He did not seem to be the man who played guitar outside his flat because there was no space to sit in his flat. He offered us a mango that was powdery and powerful with this news.

I no longer feel a need to repaint this horse. It is the right color I just didn’t know it then.