Touching
Bonnie Reeder, Second Place
is no use to defend my partner who, at the cringe of my nose, removed the body that everyone else had avoided all week. The most I can offer Angie is my silence.
I don’t like to touch rabbits, even
Angie stabs a rock and breaks to push aside a muddy tear from her cheek. Stepping off the concrete into the dirt, I gesture for a turn with the shovel. “I think you’ve gone deep enough, let’s just take down this edge a little.” After ensuring that the box fits, Angie paces to the black garbage can and precariously teeters on the lip while her tiptoes slide on the ice.
when they’re alive. Lingering by my visible breath is the spirit of the family pet, as I crouch on my haunches at the corner of the garage. Angie isn’t wrong to be upset, though her dad does not deserve the adolescent rage she delivers with each plunge of the shovel into the dirt. The time to talk reason will come later.
Finally grasping the red drawstring of the kitchen Glad bag, Angie recovers her balance, “She’s not trash!” Angie cries. “He threw her hoists herself up, and brings her bunny back, away! She’s! Not! Trash!” thumping it next to the box at my feet. I stretch my legs and stand back up, letting It’s Angie’s turn to be silent now, and she the posture of my lips and eyes remind her that scowls at winter, and the world, but won’t look Peterina has been dead for a week. at me. She turns away into the garage and I “She’s not a broken toy!” “You can’t just hear the doors slam on the repurposed pantry throw her away!” “Did you think I wouldn’t cupboards. notice!?” Around the corner I ask, “What are you Angie pauses her digging to measure looking for, Ang?” curious if there is a plan the large silver gift box she decorated with attached to her intense rummaging. Peterina’s name. In frustration, she picks up the “I’m looking for gloves,” she retorts. shovel again, and I don’t tell her that it needs to be wider not deeper. “Oh,” I say, mentally checking the bins Instead, I say, “You’re right, hun.” Inhaling then exhaling. “You’re absolutely right.” “But Dad threw her away!” Catching my instinct, I don’t respond. It [ 128 ]
in the cabinets. Estimating that this might take a while, I change to a kneeling position and involuntarily my eyes close as in prayer. Instead of platitudes, however, I scan my memory for gloves. I hear them before I see
