MININO

by Isabella Salcedo

 

one day, my grandmother tells me, the cat stopped showing up.  the quail, the deer, the snakes and lizards communed all across the property. the groundhogs dug, the foxes trotted and the fountain only dried up on scorching days. she left food out for him, would see him when he happened by, would call him minino and he would not answer to it. when we flew into town, my grandfather’s funeral distilled into three distinct memories: a eulogy, silky black pants, and soft tears. sometimes closure is just the last time you see them, seductive tail shifting into the corners of the garden, gray belly baking in the sun, paws limp, splayed and suspended, eyes almost closed.