Puppy Dust

Running along the creek by my house, I spotted a small blackness jutting out of the water, stiff and stinking in the sun. I turned my head away from it, moving quickly through the greeness of sun-drenched leaves, my breath expelled through young lungs, alive.

Days passed. One afternoon, a neighborhood boy dragged a garbage bag across our front yard as I sang and looked out the bedroom window. Today could be the day that I caught a butterfly or made my parents another mud turtle sculpture. But that bag...what was in that bag? It made me feel bad. Soon I had to take my medicine. It had never really bothered me, though I bruised easily. I hated the boy dragging that bag. I tiptoed down the hall and stood at the top of the stairs as Dad peered into it. He signed. I twirled back to my room to finish my song, complete with high kicks. I had a butterfly to catch and a mud turtle to sculpt, so I needed to finish that song.

A few years earlier, I had been playing in the back yard when Mama started her car and I heard the screech of a cat. She pushed me inside, trying to calm me down by rubbing my face and explaining that when fans spin, they become sharp enough to cut. So I tested that theory by raking my fingers across different fans covers throughout the house. Nothing happened. And my needles didn't hurt me, they kept me alive. But the fan killed my cat. I understood very little about how the world worked. I still don't.

That night, Dad asked me if I wanted to go for a run. It was hot and we ran uphill, over dusty gravel and uneven footing. I loved running with my Dad. He was an strong athlete, a fast and muscular former college running back who teased me constantly, playing "hurt" during our games of tag so that I would dash over to help him and he would tag me. He made me feel safe because he protected all of us. One time a man put a rubberband around my dog's neck and my Dad threw a brick through his window because the guy wouldn't come out of his house. Dad didn't even back down when the neighbor brought a cop to our house. I watched through the screen door as our neighbor cowered pretty quickly, cop or no cop. He told me the most important thing was that Mama, me and him always stuck together. When my brother was born a few years later, he became part of that very serious pact. I adore (d) my Dad. Our runs were a special treat. But I had a sick feeling in my stomach about this one. As we cooled down, he told me what was inside of the bag. I asked him if I could see, but he said he had already buried it. I could not stop crying, so he hugged me tightly while I wailed, my snot dripping down on his skin.

That night, Mama gave me a bath and told me that things must die when they are tired or because something bad happens, like an accident. I asked about being sick---could I die? She said as long as I took my medicine and took good care of myself, I should be fine for a long time. And she said I wasn't "sick". She said I had a condition, not a sickness. Not everyone saw it that way, but she dismissed them, calling the girls on the school bus who said they couldn't sit with me because they would catch what I had ignorant. Mama is hardworking and loving, a woman who guards her family like a tigeress. She knows things, sometimes calling because she had a bad feeling about me and always during a time when I was being dumped or evicted or simply had my feelings hurt. She also knows when I am not doing what I am suppose to do in terms of my health. For the most part, I listened to her advice about taking care of myself. But the times I didn't (or don't) left me with a fear and a guilt that you can't describe to someone who has never faced mortality. Years later, I would return home after a young teenager rode his bike in front of Mama's car and I would often think of this bath time moment. I reminded her of her words but there is little you can say to someone who has suffered such a horror. People say therapy works but I am not so sure. It is something that just stays with you forever. Mama knew this instinctively and I had the gaul to argue about it with her, thinking my pleas for her to see a therapist were what she needed. What she needed was for me to just listen to her if she wanted to talk, like she had done for me so many years before. And when I really thought about that bath time moment, I knew she was telling me that I must deal with the things that I had been given to deal with. Otherwise I would die, figuratively. I thought of this, too, when my boyfriend's heart exploded and when I cleaned my aunt in the shower as she rotted from lung cancer. I hurt like I had been beaten; the pain bubbled in my stomach and I breathed it out like a disease, contaminating everyone I came in contact with. I had fufilled the claims of the school bus girls. Eventually, I learned to let that pain be a part of who I am instead of taking me over. But it never goes away, popping up like a coldsore at the most inconvient times. Life can be inconvient. There is never a good time for anything, is there? And though I feel that every living thing becomes a recognizable energy when it passes, that does little to soften the blow. Everyone says God is a nice guy; He must be a little warped, too.

After reading this, I hope you realize on some gut level---because intellect is of no use here--- that you should not waste love in life. Time yes, but love, no. You must show those that you care for that you do. If they can't show you the same and you don't sense that they do---some people don't show feelings well--- then say goodbye because that is a waste of love. If they realize they have done wrong or really care, they will come back to you. And if not, you are better off. And if you are one of those people who cannot express yourself because you have been so hurt or traumitized, you are missing the point of your sorrow. What I say I mean for lovers, friends, and even pets: you must tell them and let them love you. We must all make connections. It is your duty. Because this is a hard life, though sometimes full of blinding joy. And every living thing winds up in a bag at some point, even on a lovely day while little girls play in the sun.