A colorless January morning. Walking into the office in my sweat pants, hair unkept, toting my son’s guinea pigs in their little blue nylon sack. Twittering and chirping, nervously anticipating their nail clipping. Fifty dollars for both of them, Jesus. The waiting room—antiseptic white, the stench of bleach and mammalian fear. Hunched on a sleek metal chair, staring blandly into space.
Suddenly, the white noise of my mind is pierced by stinging sobs. My serenity stabbed. From the adjacent room, a breakthrough of grief, cries fierce like the crashing of waves, wails wet and rolling. News of some impending doom, some incurable disease. Raw weeping like a child – unbounded, rhythmic, bubbling up from the chest’s dank caverns.
Beloved pet, receptacle of affection. Love untinged by ambivalence, by the complications of human relationships. Just soft fur, gentle eyes, thumping tail, leaving an imprint of warmth on our lap.
Math’s brutality.
How many days have you left?
Tell me, beloved.
