This morning I finished adhering the last photograph on the poster board. It would make for a nice display at Mark’s memorial. People of his generation didn’t do that sort of thing, but after twenty years of attending HIV memorials, I’d become an expert on death. The advantage of a cremation and memorial over a body and a funeral – more time to put on a show.
Yesterday the cleaning lady told me she’d take Peony. I felt the balm of warmness in my heart – thank goodness, the little stinker would have a home. And Lucretia knew the little brown chihuahua pooped all over the place.
But a cold wind blew out my heart’s warmth. What about Margo? Who would take her? Who would give the sweet, shell-shocked dog a hug and a kiss at night? She’d lost her daddy and now, she’d lose both her little sister and her home, all at once. Her delicate black Chihuahua features needed protection from the evil world. No, I can’t separate them – or take them to the shelter. And I’ve got two days to figure it out.
I looked at the poster board. Pictures as recent as April, the gay wedding Mark attended, his last social occasion before taking ill. And two pictures from 1923, when he was 3 years old. You can tell it’s Mark – same high cheekbones and English mouth. I promised him I’d find homes for the dogs, and find them I will.
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