Rooted, I used to think.

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Sunday, Nov. 23, 2003 @ 9:35 pm

He'd get scared and thrash so I'd hold him to my chest, protecting his head from slamming against the deck. His cry, his eyes, his sweet pink tongue. Tuba.

The sewer pup, dredged up, brought to life, and thriving. Thriving in my heart, my beloved Tuba. I carried him out into the pools for his first swim, felt his heart beat as he looked around the forest. Warmth and softness, a wet nose and whiskers; this is my all and my reason.

And then out comes the manilla tag. The black garbage bag. Ugly things, cold things, and into the freezer. Tag #. He's not gone, he's not, he can't be. I held him last night and fed him warm fish mash.

But his eyes were blank then too.

Bright eyes turned cold, life gone, limp. The face I love not the same, the muscles relaxed, the jaw slack.

Tuba. I swirled the water where the fish had thawed and the scales glittered like mica. Opalescent, delicate. And it all tornadoes down the drain.

Roots | Shoots