Take Care of the Old Man, by Kahlo Smith

Photo by Pavel Anoshin on Unsplash

Before the vet’s house call

My tears perfumed your fur—

My wet dog remembering the river run

Your legs are too weak for today.

My phone rang as she pulled into the driveway.

Grandpa died at midnight.

I was already sobbing,

Trumpeting my nose on old shirts

To memorize your scent.

Staining the fabric with slobber and Lunchables grease,

Sharing your final meal.

You outlived the man who fled Austria by boat

And swam two miles of open ocean,

Floating with the corpses of his shipmates.

Who grew old to pluck tomatoes from the vine

And hold them underneath our noses.

One last time, like his in-home aide,

We lift you down the stairs and watch you stumble through the garden

Where we’ll bury you tonight.

The soil is rich with your fur already.

I tell Dad he’ll be picking you out of his teeth

For the next ten years.

Second injection circulating,

You speak for the first time in weeks.

We’re crying goodbye, boy,

We love you.

I wonder what you’ve learned to reply.

Good dog. Sit.

I’ll be home soon.

You’re dreaming when the needle hits your vein.

Grandpa’s last thoughts were probably in Hebrew

On his couch suffused with the scent of antiseptic aging.

I can understand you better, I imagine,

With my nose buried in your fur,

Sharing your final breaths.

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Kahlo Ruth Fromm Smith was born in the redwoods of Santa Cruz, CA and is pursuing an MFA in Fiction at UNR. When not hunting Bigfoot or navigating catacombs, she can be found at kahlosmith.wordpress.com or Instagram @vellumgarden.