novembre ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- the yellow wallpaper/my parents' animals Well there we were, sly little dogs. Always moving like a pack of dogs. You know, I think I mourn their collective memory much like one would a sibling. Now when I visit my parents, I don't know their dogs because we didn't grow up together. I haven't slept through a thunderstorm with them on my feet. They haven't eaten my underwear or gone exploring around the neighborhood with me. They're just... there. They're just ...dogs. Last week I dog-sat for Stu, walking his retriever Fiji in the evenings. I loved being around Fiji and now I realize that I miss dogs. It was a big deal when a dog died in my family, and unfortunately we were the kind of family that dogs kept dying on. The worst death was Heidi, the blind miniature German schnauzer who was the most benign, loving creature. Pretty, too. Such long lashes. When she drowned in the fish pond, my dad wrote me a letter. Not a phone call; a letter. I opened the single piece of paper, folded in thirds, and I immediately registered two things: my father's handwriting, and the paper. The letter was on my mother's old stationary from when she ran for city council, four years earlier. Dad's elegant, flowery old writerly script started just beneath Mom's name in a non-offensive, non-partisan font, and I wish I still had the letter because it was written so beautifully, it was an impressive piece of writing. I remember the phrase, "Her cold, unblinking eye" and something about its dead stare. I just lost it, crying and crying, and then went to Survey of American Lit and for once was able to speak up in class. "Maybe she's in the wallpaper." 11:13 pm - 12.16.08 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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