When you died, Ruby started shedding entire patches of fur.
Mom would stand in the yard every morning with a brush,
freeing Ruby of her tangled loose threads.
She missed you so badly, so intensely that she grew a new coat.
She removed every part of her where your hand last touched.
Ruby is only a dog,
your dog,
and she knew what to do.
Everyone would grow a new skin.
Even the house would eventually molt.
Our kitchen, backyard, and basement.
Our living room, and your room.
All would be made into indistinguishable versions of their old selves in your absence.
It’s only the script to grief.
The force to change, evolve, move.
The need to ruin the grasp you held,
no matter how tiresome it is to groom out a whole new pelt,
no matter how much you loved the old kitchen cabinets.
I wonder if you thought about what you couldn’t leave an imprint on?
When legacy won’t win in a struggle against time.
Your chair in the basement that would eventually become too beat up to keep.
And your clothes that we will have no use for.
Or any secret, any wish, any memory that you never got a chance to tell someone.
I don’t think you thought about how the dog would shed.
Maddie Sackett is a cartoonist and writer. She is a senior majoring in Comics at the School of Visual Arts. Her work deals with themes of grief, found family, and the femme. More of her work can be found at junimadii.com or @junimadii on Instagram.