And all you have are those words that give no comfort at all.
An accident.
It can be an accident, and you can still be to blame.
All I had to do was keep an eye on him. Just pay attention to the one living thing who loved me, and I failed.
Your fault your fault your fault.
Your fault your fault your fault.
Your fault this happened.
Your. Fault.
I look across the backyard.
And then I see.
121.
now
He is walking back across the yard to me, sleek and free.
122.
now
“Hey,” I say. I reach for him, and he darts away. He sees the collar dangling in my hand.
“You have to wear this,” I say. Tears are streaming down my face, and my throat is hoarse from calling out for him. “The tag says your name. What number to call if you get lost. Who you belong to.”
I have owned him since my ninth birthday, for over nine years now.
I have never owned him.
You can never own anything that is alive, at all.
123.
now
I walk over to the trash can in the backyard and throw in the collar. Yolo watches me from under our picnic table, where he has taken cover from the rain.
124.
now
When I sit down on the back porch steps, Yolo comes over to me. He climbs on my lap, and when I pat his back, his coat is dirty and wet. He has been out adventuring and hasn’t had time to clean it yet.
“There, there,” I say, as I run my hand along his back. I don’t sing to him this time. “There, there. You’ll be okay.”
He looks up at me as if to say,I know. I’ve always been okay.
Except when you put me in that stupid backpack.
And drove me all over town when you already know where you have to go.
