The Story of Swords There’s a photograph of my grandmother that I often return to. She is sitting bareback on a white horse in 1945. Her floral dress is the same grey colour as the barn behind her. There are soft clouds in the sky. Her hair is long and full, her cheeks dewy, her white socks pulled half-way up her calves and tucked into leather loafers. My grandma is sitting sideways, no tell how she got onto the horse, no tell how she will get down. Although I know my grandma to be demure, in this photograph she appears plucky, a farm girl who rode fearlessly without a saddle. Here, my grandma is almost at the age when she began to hear the voice of Death.
two on tarot
two on tarot
two on tarot
The Story of Swords There’s a photograph of my grandmother that I often return to. She is sitting bareback on a white horse in 1945. Her floral dress is the same grey colour as the barn behind her. There are soft clouds in the sky. Her hair is long and full, her cheeks dewy, her white socks pulled half-way up her calves and tucked into leather loafers. My grandma is sitting sideways, no tell how she got onto the horse, no tell how she will get down. Although I know my grandma to be demure, in this photograph she appears plucky, a farm girl who rode fearlessly without a saddle. Here, my grandma is almost at the age when she began to hear the voice of Death.