Despite all his sweetness, Comet has never been a snuggly dog. So on that night in March when he nuzzles his head against me on the couch, I smile and boop his nose and rub his ears and relish in the moment. He is, after all, thirteen years old, and I know our time is limited.
As with most things in life, I had no idea exactly how limited these moments would be. Within a month, Comet has stopped eating. There are other messy warning signs that something is wrong, so my husband and I get him to the vet around the same time as our local government enforces mandatory lockdowns in an effort to curb the virus that is knocking on our doors. It is nerve-wracking enough worrying about your fur baby, but waiting in the car while the masked vets and techs do their work makes it even more upsetting.…
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It was not the first time she had stood before a window, waiting. A year ago, or perhaps more, she had watched through the tall glass panes in her room as she and her parents had arranged, but that was at the private hospital a hour’s drive away where you could have your own room and showers but now she was in the big public hospital in the most run-down part of her city and they couldn’t afford to give each patient their own room. And so it was three beds to a room, no shower, and that was fine, just different.
She had been here for weeks. It may have been well over a month already—she had stopped keeping track. But then her brother’s birthday rolled around, and she wanted to gift him something.…
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A straw poll was taken and the leading candidate is Getting lost in someone else’s dreams.
A surprising, distant second was Taking out the trash barefoot in a Midwest snowstorm. It
seems frostbite complements of a frozen Fargo tundra isn’t the challenger one might
think. Something about living out someone else’s aspirations deeply resonated within
the voters. When asked why she selected that, a middle-aged, single woman who
directs Hallmark movies said, I couldn’t stand the guilt I’d feel knowing this fantasy isn’t
mine. An octogenarian who enjoys days of Dominoes and Bonanza marathons
confided, It’s just not right. Not everyone imagines tending to the Ponderosa alongside Little Joe
and Hoss. I understand the dynamics of being stuck in a world rooted in a make-believe
where the fiction is written without the protagonist in mind.…
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The thin man was done. He smirked and turned, whistling as he strolled down the tiled floors and hallway. He pushed through the double doors, and I did as told: the important parts were bagged, and the loose edges were joined with needle and thread. Then came the sponge and the scrubbing. The refuse was incinerated, the knives and pans cleaned with soap and water, and the whole thing rolled away under a sheet.
On my way back from the cooler, I saw Harvey walk into the tiled room, stopping at the long countertop. He made an entry in the log book, his dark brown forearms bulging above blue latex gloves as he wrote. After closing and replacing the book, he looked over. “Got another call; it’ll be here soon.”…
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Her mother had made her promise that she wouldn’t quit. But as she sat amidst the other kids with their instruments listening to the cacophony, it was like the cacophony was of its own life, its own blood, and had nothing to do with the students making it. “Get me out of here,” she thought to herself. She was useless at these times, and muttering the same words made no difference to her, only made her feelings worse. She vowed to quit band, even though she enjoyed going to band camp in the summers, where there was mostly silence before rehearsal, except kids talking. Including herself. She had band camp friends. They were all friends at band camp. After band camp, they all went their separate ways, back into the stream of life. …
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I
It was always family lore that in 1968, when protesters had taken over the president’s office at Columbia University, my mother brought socks to one of the organizers of the Weather Underground. I can’t, and don’t particularly want to, fact check that statement, so I present it here with that caveat.
I can picture her, even though I am not 100% sure of the veracity of this story, sticking her impossibly thin fingers through the gate to a gruff stranger, and then pulling a pack of generic-brand socks through to the other side.
I know she was scared, though I wonder how she expressed it when she was 19 and in the thick of it, or as in the thick of it as she would let herself be.…
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Fangorn never smelled so sweet
beneath the looming hemlocks,
heavy with untouched cones.
Maple leaves drop, then gather at the bottoms of hills
as September’s heat and October’s rains blanch
all colors from their veins.
Saturated tree trunks tower above the soggy bog
like obelisks from a time never known,
as if keeping watch over all things unseen
while releasing nutrients for their young now grown.
Wood rings whisper stories in each creak,
an ancient code, an old stand Rosetta stone
warning each passing soul of winter’s approach
despite the distant chainsaws that encroach.
– Donny Winter…
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