Photo by Matthieu Joannon on Unsplash
by Diane D. Gillette
It’s the fifth anniversary of Jasper’s death day, and per usual, I’m in the backyard grilling sausages from my father’s butcher shop, filling our quaint neighborhood with the scent of garlicky meat and deep sorrow. Though I am grilling sausages from my father’s butcher shop, he’s not invited to Jasper’s death day because, while he might have the best quality meats in town, Mom really just goes there to remind him that if he hadn’t been leaving us that day — that if he hadn’t made her cry — then our very good dog would still be with us.
The neighbors are mingling around our backyard, holding paper plates of sausages and scoops of Mom’s tangerine gelatin salad with mini-marshmallows because these were Jasper’s favorite foods, and the day is about him, after all. There are fewer people in attendance this year, a pattern that has continued for the last few years, but this makes sense considering not everyone knew Jasper and what a very good dog he was.
Mom begins telling the tale of the day Jasper died, mimicking his perfect snarl and growl that set our father to running out in the street, crying when she gets to the part about how none of us saw that truck coming. I’m getting teary-eyed myself, and so I take a moment to imagine my father sitting at home with his new wife, her eyes vacant, her giggle vapid, and I know, I just know, he’d rather be eating sausages with us and toasting to the life of a very good dog.
Diane D. Gillette (she/her) mostly writes short things. She lives and teaches in Chicago with her partner and cats. Read more at www.digillette.com.
