This is an old dog dozing on a sofa cushion.
February 8, 2013 § 13 Comments
Before Moo, when we called, his voice was rusty with disuse. After our daughter found her at the shelter and tricked him into adopting a dog his voice not only worked, it sounded happy.
This is also the grieving dog who helped us survive my father’s death by living out the loss with us.
This is also the good dog who, despite the nighttime trash knockdowns and a taste for cat turds has earned the irrevocable title of best-dog-ever.
It is also two loaves of whole wheat bread rising on the stove, and a small carved monk looking benignly on as we live our lives, just as he did for my whole childhood.
It is a gathering of rocks , and an octopus painted by our daughter.
It is a the smell of coffee and the sound of running water and someone singing a written-on-the-spot song in honor of the aforementioned shit eating best dog ever.
It is the click of a light switch starting the new day or ending the old.
This is also an excuse to sit on a storm drain and drop rocks through the grate.
And wear a fake mustache.
And read “Amos Jellybean Gets it Right” nine hundred times.
This is a reason to feel joy as I grow old.
This is the novice person to whom I will entrust my old guitar and my stories of time and family. As soon as his hands are big enough he will play a fine C chord, and as for the stories, he will remember and pass them on to the next child, somewhat changed and improved as any storyteller worth their salt does.
And believe me, this boy’s got salt.
This is also one of the things my husband did while killing time waiting for me to get from age seven to twenty when our paths would cross.
This is also a view of Ray that contains an anatomical detail I have never seen in real life.
An upper lip.
This is also a gold ring bought for $10 at Best Buy, the cheapest in the case. Worn for nearly thirty-five years so far, except when kneading bread or making meatloaf; the best $10 ever spent.
This is also a page from a book written by the hand (with a little help from the brain). But while the brain got to sit in its penthouse suite, the hand paid the price for the hours and hours of repetitive motion.
The brain changed its mind, the hand revised.
Now the hand hurts when it does ordinary things like opening a jar or moving a sofa.
But the hand aims to please so it keeps on going.
This is also the view I saw from the stage at the Relay for Life. Turn the camera around and you see Craig and me, “Hot Tamale” singing our hearts out under adverse conditions. Having come through a car accident I was getting around on a walker.
I couldn’t dance to the music but I could still make it. What I see in this picture is three girls dancing with the exuberance I had in my heart if not my broken pelvis. It was good to know that when I couldn’t dance someone would do it for me.
I could have chosen other photos. I have thousands to choose from thanks to Ray. These were the ones that struck me at this moment, but all of them have stories. I remember the stories attached to photos with a clarity they probably lacked as they rushed by. The meaning becomes clear when I revisit the past. Like any storyteller worth their salt I might embellish just a little.
Where do you think Matthew got his salt from?