my dads dad, my grandfather,
has carried every single dog he’s ever owned back from the vet.
as far back as i can remember
he’s taken them home, to his old old house overlooking the lake,
in the trunk of his car,
covered by a white sheet.
he buries them in his backyard.
my momma says hes cheap,
never wants to pay the cremation fee,
and maybe she’s right–
she often is.
but i like to think, that maybe
it’s one final act of devotion
man to dog,
lowering your puppy into a hole you dig with your own hands,
your own heart.
my grandpa, he goes out and digs, for hours
and wont let nobody else help him,
he don’t need water, or food,
just whistles a somber tune,
and listens to the thunk the shovel makes
when it comes into contact with the dirt.
my grandpa, he keeps the dirt under his fingernails as long as he can,
the worn and faded blue collar hangs next to his workbench in the cellar,
a reminder
she still waits by the door for her next walk,
he still fills her dish at seven, and again at five.
a man, no matter how strong,
no matter how many years have passed since he played games, or ran, or shouted in glee
a man never stops loving like a boy
Avery Brooke is an avid reader and writer from Massachusetts. She writes mainly short stories and poetry about her own life and experiences. When she’s not writing or reading, she likes to spend time with her friends, family, and dog, Sunny.
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