loss, like the ball at hip level vanishing behind my back with a slight upward tilt.
“Becky’s happy,” said Mom. “She runs her dogs and she’s living her own dreams. You need to let go of what happened to Dad.
Remember the good times and what he was like then.”
“But there’s nothing left, Mom,” I said.
“You’ll always have your memories.”
“You can’t eat memories,” I said, before I could think. “And nothing else tastes good.”
I put my arms around Brooks’s neck and hold him. I’m lying on blood. I wriggle out of my sweater and place it on his flank, behind his pack.
My feelings are still somewhat frozen, but my memories are growing stronger. They unfold with all my senses involved: sight and smell and hearing and touch and even taste. They’re a time machine, and I can work the controls at will. It’s just a little trickier staying in the present.
Then Brooks picks up his head and licks my face.
He’s alive.
Barely, but he’s alive.
If he has to die, I want him to die this very second. That way neither of us will suffer. It’s childish and it’s selfish and I shouldn’t feel like that. But for this moment, I do.
I take the bags of bloody cheese and nuts and hurl them with all my strength down the mountain. Then I stand, hands over my face, and force myself to breathe slowly. It’s so hard to tear away my hands. I don’t want to see mountains all around me. I don’t want to see that I’m completely alone.
The pack saved his life. The fabric is torn and the deepest wound slashes along his left flank, sparing his belly. The rest are just scratches.
“It’s okay, puppy,” I murmur. “It’s okay.” I don’t look too closely or I’ll throw up.
I knot the pack around my waist and spend a few minutes searching with the monocle for an open route down the draw back to camp. Brooks lies on his belly and licks his wound. For a moment I scan farther. No smoke, no hidden camps with Dad about to charge out and help.
I scoop Brooks into my arms so he lies crosswise with his wound on the outside. Good thing I’m used to carrying a heavy pack. I carry Brooks as far as I can down the mountain.
When I collapse, I stroke him, both of us lying on the slope.
Without warning, I’m mad. Anger breaks over me. “What an idiot! The bear just wanted to be left alone. Was that too much to ask?”
I stand and walk off a few steps.
Brooks drags himself behind me.
“You could have got me killed too,” I shout.
Brooks lies perfectly still on his belly and whines.
My stomach cramps. I retch into the willows but nothing comes out. I haven’t eaten since yesterday. The ravens can devour the bloody lunch for all I care. Silence screeches in my ears. What am I doing? Brooks is in pain. And there’s no one else here to take charge.
“Come on, Brooks,” I coax.
Sunshine disappears from the valley below. Stars wink overhead.
“You can do it, puppy,” I tell him.
And he does, dragging one leg.
We get back to camp in the dark. I grope in my pack for my flashlight. I poke in the fire-pit ashes for a spark, but nothing glows. I’m trembling with cold and shock. It’s too dark to find kindling. I need to calm down, to focus on something else. That’s what my story does, I think. It takes me somewhere else.
The prince and the princess were still on their quest, searching for the lake of true stories where the white birds roosted, when the prince was captured by the Guardians of the Lake. Days of wandering later, the princess too was discovered. She was sleeping in a sun-drenched glade, sparrows twittering on branches above her grass bed, bees lazily droning amongst yellow poppies and blue gentians.
The guards led the princess to the stone-walled dungeon. One guard marched ahead, holding an oil lamp. The princess ran her hand along the wall as she stumbled through the dark hallways, hoping to memorize the return route. They slammed the cell door. She watched the last flicker of
“Becky’s happy,” said Mom. “She runs her dogs and she’s living her own dreams. You need to let go of what happened to Dad.
Remember the good times and what he was like then.”
“But there’s nothing left, Mom,” I said.
“You’ll always have your memories.”
“You can’t eat memories,” I said, before I could think. “And nothing else tastes good.”
I put my arms around Brooks’s neck and hold him. I’m lying on blood. I wriggle out of my sweater and place it on his flank, behind his pack.
My feelings are still somewhat frozen, but my memories are growing stronger. They unfold with all my senses involved: sight and smell and hearing and touch and even taste. They’re a time machine, and I can work the controls at will. It’s just a little trickier staying in the present.
Then Brooks picks up his head and licks my face.
He’s alive.
Barely, but he’s alive.
If he has to die, I want him to die this very second. That way neither of us will suffer. It’s childish and it’s selfish and I shouldn’t feel like that. But for this moment, I do.
I take the bags of bloody cheese and nuts and hurl them with all my strength down the mountain. Then I stand, hands over my face, and force myself to breathe slowly. It’s so hard to tear away my hands. I don’t want to see mountains all around me. I don’t want to see that I’m completely alone.
The pack saved his life. The fabric is torn and the deepest wound slashes along his left flank, sparing his belly. The rest are just scratches.
“It’s okay, puppy,” I murmur. “It’s okay.” I don’t look too closely or I’ll throw up.
I knot the pack around my waist and spend a few minutes searching with the monocle for an open route down the draw back to camp. Brooks lies on his belly and licks his wound. For a moment I scan farther. No smoke, no hidden camps with Dad about to charge out and help.
I scoop Brooks into my arms so he lies crosswise with his wound on the outside. Good thing I’m used to carrying a heavy pack. I carry Brooks as far as I can down the mountain.
When I collapse, I stroke him, both of us lying on the slope.
Without warning, I’m mad. Anger breaks over me. “What an idiot! The bear just wanted to be left alone. Was that too much to ask?”
I stand and walk off a few steps.
Brooks drags himself behind me.
“You could have got me killed too,” I shout.
Brooks lies perfectly still on his belly and whines.
My stomach cramps. I retch into the willows but nothing comes out. I haven’t eaten since yesterday. The ravens can devour the bloody lunch for all I care. Silence screeches in my ears. What am I doing? Brooks is in pain. And there’s no one else here to take charge.
“Come on, Brooks,” I coax.
Sunshine disappears from the valley below. Stars wink overhead.
“You can do it, puppy,” I tell him.
And he does, dragging one leg.
We get back to camp in the dark. I grope in my pack for my flashlight. I poke in the fire-pit ashes for a spark, but nothing glows. I’m trembling with cold and shock. It’s too dark to find kindling. I need to calm down, to focus on something else. That’s what my story does, I think. It takes me somewhere else.
The prince and the princess were still on their quest, searching for the lake of true stories where the white birds roosted, when the prince was captured by the Guardians of the Lake. Days of wandering later, the princess too was discovered. She was sleeping in a sun-drenched glade, sparrows twittering on branches above her grass bed, bees lazily droning amongst yellow poppies and blue gentians.
The guards led the princess to the stone-walled dungeon. One guard marched ahead, holding an oil lamp. The princess ran her hand along the wall as she stumbled through the dark hallways, hoping to memorize the return route. They slammed the cell door. She watched the last flicker of
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