I recently had someone tell me he wanted to let me know things would be ok because he was reading my writing here and was worried about how sad I seemed. I quickly told him I’m not sad, I mean not more than anyone else at least. For me, writing has always been a way to get the sads out — a place to process and store things and remember. A little box to put all your feelings in so other people can open it and feel stuff too and relate and maybe feel some sense of connection. Reading should make you feel things — and I’m not mad that sometimes my writing makes people cry or gets them feeling nostalgic or a little … sad. Also, understand that as I writer I make shit up all the time. Even if I’m retelling what seems to be a true story. Sometimes it’s small things like if a ball was blue or orange, sometimes it’s big things like people who weren’t there, and sometimes it’s the whole story.
Since I wrote another sad thing I wanted to reassure you that I am ok and not habitually sad. And trigger warning, I talk about a dead dog below. It’s really truly fucking sad. It broke my heart a little. And I feel really bad sharing it but I also know it can’t just live in my head.
This is a poem for my brother Mike because we get the same kind of sads sometimes, and because I appreciate the very honest therapeutic processing conversations we can have. And because he’s a good brother who deserves more than a sad poem.
A Sad Poem for My Brother Mike, or How to Make a Cat Hold Your Hand Some mornings on your way home you see a dead dog in the middle of the road A soft brown beautiful floof just laying there, traffic stopped, a woman wailing on her knees, a leash in her hands an orange ball 2 feet away from them strangers running up reaching for the woman reaching for the dog a man filling his arms with the sweet lifeless body carrying the precious beast to the sidewalk the woman still on her knees wailing The instant I saw the brown fur on the pavement and heard those cries I instinctively muttered no no no no no like a chant that could will it away my Uber driver gasped and quickly turned back to me, a mess in the backseat You could tell he was a sweet dog, his fur still full of so much life his now floppy body oozing love for his people I immediately thought of Mom and how I was glad that's not how it happened for her a dog nothing like a life partner, but still she had time, a slow accepting of a horrible fate this scene no one deserved I got home and made my cat hold my hand and before you ask how you take two fingers and rest them on top of your cats upward facing paw until his little toe pads curl up and he rests his chin on top of your fingers a soft little sandwich that for a few seconds makes you forget about a beautiful dead dog and the sorrow that woman clutching that leash will hold in her heart forever I'm sorry I'm giving you this horrible thing to hold but I guess I want it to be a reminder for me and now for you that it could be lights out tomorrow for any of us we don’t know so let's go outside and look up at the trees tell everyone we love we love them bury our grievances 6 feet deep get our hands dirty come up for air scream sing at concerts be corny be brave make mistakes and do it all over again Because we never know when it’s lights out or what we’ll see in the morning on our way home
This is really glorious writing. Hat's off.
Oh man, this was good. My brother's name was Michael, so that's why I clicked in. I love how you expressed the way the shock from grief takes over everything, the mouth, the ears, the eyes, the mind, the hands. Thanks for sharing this, Christina.