After
This is how our father described it: a white dog
stopping traffic near our old house in the city. Our brother
newly dead, or dying, one state away. Many people
called to the dog but the dog would not come to anyone
except our father. When he described it, our father had tears
in his eyes. I could tell what he was thinking. Our father
took the dog to the vet and sure enough the dog had a chip, proof
he had been loved. Still, no one claimed him.
So our father took him home. The dog
has a new life with our father now, and for each of us
life continues on. Mostly this is what I tell myself--
that dog is just a dog, and our father is just a sad old man
whose son is gone. But who am I to say, and what do I know
of what comes after. I’ve read of people who followed a white dog
across a river to the next world. And when our father calls that dog he comes
and sits beside him like he’s known him his whole life.
stopping traffic near our old house in the city. Our brother
newly dead, or dying, one state away. Many people
called to the dog but the dog would not come to anyone
except our father. When he described it, our father had tears
in his eyes. I could tell what he was thinking. Our father
took the dog to the vet and sure enough the dog had a chip, proof
he had been loved. Still, no one claimed him.
So our father took him home. The dog
has a new life with our father now, and for each of us
life continues on. Mostly this is what I tell myself--
that dog is just a dog, and our father is just a sad old man
whose son is gone. But who am I to say, and what do I know
of what comes after. I’ve read of people who followed a white dog
across a river to the next world. And when our father calls that dog he comes
and sits beside him like he’s known him his whole life.
| AMY SMITH’s poetry has appeared in Waxwing, Poetry Northwest, Salamander, and elsewhere. She lives and works in Central New York. |