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coal dog "Is Coal there?" The neighbor's girls, ages five and three, are standing at my ground-level window. Seven o'clock at night, the sun dipping below the skyline, pinking the clouds that dot the sky beyond them. "No, Coal died." "Where is she?" the youngest asks, with wide brown eyes. The older one cuts her off before I can respond. "She's at the vet's, right." "Yeah, we had to take her to the vet's because she was really sick. She died there." "Your mom said she has something that, um, that was inside her body controlling it." I nod. "Is your mom still sad?" "Yeah." "But where is Coal?"--the youngest again. "Well, they probably buried her." I think that telling them her body was incinerated might be a bit much. "Noo!" The oldest exclaims, "You can't let them bury her. Someone might come and dig her up and steal her." "It's ok, no one will take her. She's not here anymore." "Do you love her?" "Yeah, we loved her." |
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