Imagination As Runaway Black Horse: Smack Dab in the Imagination by Dia Calhoun

 This week my imagination is a runaway black horse that will not be guided. I wish it would throw me off. My beloved cat is dying of FIV (Feline AIDS). On the back of this horse, who keeps plunging down one road and then another, all the possible variations and consequences of decisions I must make regarding the last weeks of my cat's life--all the what ifs--is an overwhelming onslaught. 

As I'm tossed, I try out a name for the horse: Beauty. I ask, "What is the most beautiful road we can take to honor this passing of a life?"

We found it.