I want him to love me the way one loves
a whimpering and
neglected dog,
with pity and
with worry and with
shame. He will find me
in an alley, shivering and
shaking, hiding from the rain.
He will coax me out from beneath whatever
discarded scrap I am cowering under, he will wrap
me in a towel or blanket or his jacket, something - anything - warm.
He will carry me home, to his home. He will place me
by the radiator, turned up to full. I will curl up
beneath it, still shivering, still shaking, while he goes to the kitchen in the
hopes of finding me something to eat.
He will rummage through the
fridge trying, to the best of his ability, to recall
exactly what does
and what does not
**** a dog.
"A lot." I will say. "More than
you think." I will say.
And he will just smile and bring me
something that doesn't.
I tell him I will not live long. He could
do anything and I would not live long. He says he has
forgiven worse sins. I tell him I
hope he never dies. He tells me I will
be disappointed. I tell him I love him. He says I love him
the way a whimpering and
neglected dog does,
desperately, painfully, with a need and
a hunger found only in children and
anorexics. He tells me
he loves me too. I tell him
I am sorry. He says he has forgiven
worse sins.
He strokes between my eyes,
a gentle spot, designed only for soothing something
to sleep. Perhaps by morning I will be
cured, my whimpering ceased, my shakes subsided. I will
run through his house, tail wagging, while he smiles and
laughs and drinks his coffee. Or perhaps there
will be no change, perhaps he will have to drive
me to the vet and have me
put down. Perhaps he will want to. A mangy thing, sick and
diseased. Irreparable.
Unsavable. Perhaps he won't need to. Perhaps
by morning I will
already be dead. But
for now I will sleep, warm
and fed, a hand soft between
the eyes.
This is about my dad, but it could be interpreted differently.
