Tuesday, August 4

PUTTING DOWN THE DOG

A lunar eclipse. Tomatoes ripped from their stalk.  I went wobbly.  Better than a day too late, the    vet said.  The choices we make for the  dying.  On the dying’s behalf.   The old cottonwood  that snapped in the storm. The rawness,  the softness of it exposed,  what I’d expected to be jagged. What I expected to be sharp. Strangers came with black bags and paperwork. She did not want to  lie  down.   The day  I  filled  the  truck  bed  with mossed  granite.   Then the  noise  from  the ground when I, sweating,  hoisted the rock from the bed and let go.  The scratched bed without the  rock.   The rock,  taken  from  the hills.   The hills.  The indented  hills.  Her heart  was filling with liquid. She was not a simple being. I have never loved anyone well enough.

(Chelsea B. DesAutels)