Sunday, June 1, 2014
The moment I remember most about that summer came after hearing a shriek of brakes and maybe a thud. Out the window, on the black street, I saw a very white dog in a pool of very red blood.
At the sight of me running toward him, he lifted his head and wagged his tail, splashing it in the blood. He believed I was coming to help him, to make it all better.
This image repeats on me like acid-reflux: the trust in his wag, the hopelessness and powerlessness of reality.
I'm back home, in bed in California now, having left my parents waving bravely from the door of their strange new apartment in assisted living in Michigan.