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.