“Dolores…” I said quietly, not wanting to startle her.
She turned and whinnied softly. Her listless gait told the story of her grief.
Dolores stuck her head through the bars of her stall and resting it on my shoulder and against my head, heaved a sigh. Her brown eyes glazed in mourning.
Meaning “sorrows” in Spanish, never before had her name seemed more appropriate.
Will she ever get over the stillbirth? How can any mother?