I Remember

I remember as if it were today. It was your last meal. I went to the supermarket on the next block to buy all the ingredients. I wanted the best for you—as always. Almost 5 years later, I can still see the face of the guy behind the green grocery counter. He weighed a plastic bag with carrots, some potatoes and strawberries. You loved strawberries. I had already gotten the meat—a thick slice of filet mignon. I paid at the checkout and went back to the apt. I didn’t want it to be your last night, but your illness was making you suffer. I took the meat out of the bag and went to the bathroom. It was a very hot summer and the vet advised me to keep you in a cool place, the coolest in the house. There you were, on the bathroom tiles. You could hardly move, but you looked up when you saw me. Here, I said, holding the meat. I am going to make this for you in a little while. You looked at the meat, then at me. You tried a smile. You ate everything like a man on death row.

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One Response to “I Remember”

  1. alex Says:

    Tragic and powerful.

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