|
Underfoot by Douglas Currier When the dog died, he didn’t know what he’d lost. The months afterward taught him: the silent comings home, the mornings speaking now, only to himself. He still speaks to others as if she were still alive, as if he still has a dog. Banished from the pet aisle, the backyard, he found the forgotten tennis ball, faded florescent green, in the corner beneath the little table that collects old newspapers. Underfoot – the flat, red leash and two squeaky toys – elephant and turtle – in his sock drawer. He hates the storms she would have hated, sharp noises, the shitty little neighbor kids she knew to bark at. One has to be taught loss, taught to miss these things. Spending I spend this week looking for signs – the lost luggage, the losing lottery ticket, the lack of work, my lapsing obsessions. Autumn is the time of omens – birds flying south, squirrels hiding acorns from next door in the empty flowerpots on the back deck, leaves falling on their hidden schedule. Do leaves know when they will fall? Or are they like us – is dropping a sort of surprise? I fear I have turned color. Living Will I would like to think that they would know what I want – but then, when have they? Conversations so often misunderstood, time spent for naught. There are things about each other that we don’t want to hear, disregard in the confusion of living as if we will never die or need the sort of extreme decisions now even hard to make for myself. I charge you now, family. When I am not me, nor will be ever the same – no plugs, no tubes, no liquids, no foods – please no inordinate expense. |
|
