Peanut, the hamster
who curled under your chin
when you wept uncontrollably
over who knew what
until your heaving slowed,
and you lifted a finger
to stroke his copper fur—
he died first, making a beeline
from the cage you forgot to latch,
to the rat poison we forgot
was still behind our bed.
Nutmeg, Peachie, and so many others
whose names we’ve forgotten—
though you haven’t—all curled
into old age, then stiffened.
It was Spice, your dearest
childhood confidant, who tickled
your nose with his whiskers,
and stayed the longest,
palm-sized bff,
therapist for your woes.
When, late one night,
he wheezed and wheezed,
a faint foreboding sound,
we listened, attentive as doctors,
then all together, piled in the family van
on our way to save him.
In the back seat,
Child beginning to trust,
you cradled his tiny body
and when the kind vet
did what he needed to do,
you returned to the back seat—
on your lap the small cardboard box
that cradled him.
When all we feel we have
is gone, it’s gone, the darkness
decades deep until we grow to learn
an even deeper darkness.
By moonlight, we buried him
with the others—after
that night, there were never
any others—except a grandmother,
a grandfather, a class friend.
