by Linnea Lieth

Artwork by Julia Sorensen

I woke to my father’s quiet voice and ran
to the front porch,
almost hitting her in the clumsy swing
of the glass storm door.
She lay motionless in the morning chill,
a perfect fur crescent on the concrete
just before the doorway.
That hole took my father a long time to dig
and I watched from the kitchen window
as the man who had scolded me
for crying over fights with my mother,
broken toys and bullies
hunched his strong shoulders and paused,
laying the shovel down on the cold red clay
to wipe his eyes.

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