We are in a carriage. Mother next to me. It is dark night, yet I can see everything as if it were daylight. All is vivid and absolutely pure. The moon is behind the clouds. The crisp air. I see my breath. Miniature puffs of bright white yarn, floating from my mouth. There’s a bump in the road. We go up into the air. I look down as I fall. There is no carriage beneath me, no seat, but the horses are still prancing in front as if they are pulling us forward. I find myself sitting so politely on the air. I look up and there’s mother coming down from the night sky, her skirts all fluffed up. So gentle. Falling down, so softly. We are on the fresh backs of horses, galloping, our thighs clutching tightly their warm bodies. I yell, “Mother, we are riding!” She doesn’t hear me. Her hair has come undone. Long strands, white as the moon, flowing behind her. It is beautiful, but improper.