On the death of Salem
Sarah Grodzinski I take the train through the city. It passes the monuments, the buildings, the buzz and the blur. The leaves on the trees look like soggy crowns as they slump on the shoulders of worn branches. I grip the handles of my reusable grocery bag the whole way, afraid of what will happen when I get out and walk inside the vet’s office, and leave this canine frame on the table. It was his idea to put him in this shopping bag. The smell wafts through the zippered lining, the stares gather from the man with the loud ear buds who bobs his head up and down and the woman with the bright lipstick who files her nails, the red crumbs of polish falling in debris on the steps. In a way, I almost enjoy the attention, the scrunched noses, the looks of astonishment when I tell them I’m taking my dead dog to the veterinarian because I don’t have the room to bury him in my yard. In a way, I think it’s apropos that the mother in front of me holds her son’s ears as he turns his head away and cries; that the psychiatrist who leaves her office an hour early to have an affair with another man has to talk even louder than usual into her cell phone to block out my story. I think, in a settling, mortifying way old Salem deserves this. |
About the author:
Sarah Grodzinski has an MFA in Creative Writing from Chatham University. She is looking to publish her first collection, On Beacon Street. She is an Adjunct Professor and Assistant Tennis Coach at Lebanon Valley College in Annville, PA. Recently, she has been spending her time listening to Damien Rice's new album and planning her upcoming wedding. |