The Holy Twins

Ours was a play-filled childhood; irrigation ditches ran deep

during the summers. We played in the water and dirt, then inscribed

ABCs and numbers onto the smooth ground. Our cat Polly died

of rabies; then all the pets had to be shot, some in the rib cage

as they thrashed in panic. There was a pink bruise

on my forehead from pressing against the wall. We couldn't figure

out how such a thing could happen. The dogs were steadfast figures

around the farm. They chased strange cars and sometimes invoked deep

panic among visitors and passersby. They had cuts and bruises

from scuffles with roaming packs. No tags were inscribed

with their random Navajo names. Snazzy was skinny; his rib cage

obvious through thin fur. He looked as if he might die

from hunger, but he ate like nobody's business. Who knew he would die

of rabies with the rest? The main thing was to figure

out how they contracted it, my parents said. We cried until our rib cages

ached; our eyes stayed swollen. This first loss was too deep

to even talk about. Decades later, I can finally describe

how that summer led us into a grief that felt like a bruise

that would last forever. But our neighbor suffered worse bruises:

their huge dog, named Dog, was the first to die

and was the cause of all this. Their home and fields are inscribed

in our memories as "the rabies place." Over time, they must have figured

it was too much to live down. Childhood losses run deep,

even though we are grandparents now. The memory is an invisible cage

of anguished sobs, gunshots, yelping howls, canine rib cages

exploding. Sometimes we reminisce and notice that the bruises

of grief have turned pale like smoothed-over scars. That initial deep

hurt was the start, we found, of how love could die

right before us, even as we watched: stunned figures

pleading for mercy, urgent prayers saying, "Let God's scribe

mark this down. We've paid our dues. Our hearts are inscribed

with loss after loss." For some reason, after everything, our rib cages

held up and continued to cradle tender hearts. They must have figured

that all the prayers and careful teachings would prevent bruises

that would weaken us. Our love for those homely animals was deep

and would figure in the knowledge that such bruises

aren't endless, and that our rib cages are not mere bones. One can die

from grief, so now we can describe loss and love as the Holy Twins.