The morning light creeps through the windows and the slight blond girl wakes. She slowly stretches before rising and getting dressed. Once outside she finds a quiet flat spot in the grass just outside one of the paddocks. She sits cross legged in the grass pushing aside the memory of her mother scolding her to “sit like a lady” she lays her on her legs palms up.
Then she starts a breathing exercise. Deep breath in, and out. Just like she would if she were preparing to approach a skittish horse and wanted to be in control. When the breathing is completely controlled, she begins.
A keen observer might catch occasional catches in the breathing that she soon brings back under control. Once, no twice the fingers of her left hand start to curl, but then they open back up with what appears to be some effort on her part. After about five minutes the tears start to trickle down her cheeks. She makes no effort to stop them or wipe them away. After about twenty minutes she lets out a deep sigh. Only then does she wipe the tears from her face.
This ritual seems to be repeated each morning and varies in length from about ten minutes to about twenty minutes. Some days there are tears, others there are not. Occasionally there is even a smile and once one of the farm hands joined her and left afterwards looking as if a burden had been lifted.
