Jackson's a chocolate lab. I brought him home from the no-kill this
morning. I've always wanted a dog, but I did it more for Wylie. We
stand under the willow with the water running out the hose, Jackson,
Wylie and I. Dandelions cover the lawn: a yellow rebellion.
When Wylie was four, a pit bull took a chunk out of his left cheek.
He'd been trying to tell the neighbor's dog, this pit bull, the story
of three little pigs and his little arms and hands described the shape
of the house and that was it: the dog erupted.
Wylie turns the bottle of soap upside down and squeezes. You can rub it
in, I tell him. It'll feel good. Wylie's hand hovers above the river of
shampoo. If I looked close enough I'd see the trembling, but I don't.
Instead, I take in Jackson, sitting on the wet grass, covered in
strawberry-scented soap, straight, still, waiting for my son's
Katrina Denza's stories can be found in The Jabberwock Review,
The Emerson Review,
To link to this story directly: http://wigleaf.com/200804soap.htm
Photo detail on main page courtesy
of Sandro Menzel.
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