Memorial Day

I’m sitting in the kitchen. It’s late morning, the time when I often feel a weight of sadness. It’s as if my body has to go through this to get to anything else. A daily crawling up through the mud.  Outside, it’s cloudy, a somberness that matches my body.

 My fingers smell like the blue disinfectant I’ve been soaking Halle’s foot in. The stuff has also turned the silver fur on her foot lightly blue. Tomorrow she’ll have the outside toe of her right foot amputated. A persistent infection that’s affecting the bone. Jeff jokes, “If you don’t start greeting us when we get home like a normal dog, we’re going to cut off your toe.” (But last night she did give us a particularly attentive greeting. She’s feeling vulnerable these days.)

 The sounds of Arlo fussing upstairs. He’s just woken up from a nap and is not happy. Halle barks at a passing dog and Arlo cries harder. Sometimes things just snowball.

 But now it’s quiet. Everyone seems to be in separate corners of the house. The air is subdued. We are subdued.