Mitzy
Jayne Elaine Air, the first born daughter of her dead father's wife, cried for three days straight after entering the light. Jayne's tears flowed from her eyes, a purplish clear liquid, a sweet taste, not salty. Her mother bottled up the liquid, and still, today, eight glass bottles remain of Jayne's first frustrations. I've seen them myself, in the basement pantry of her aunt's house. Jayne's mother always kept the saved tears a secret, but now, it doesn't matter much who knows, right? Jayne Elaine must have cried herself all out in that first go because she hasn't cried since. Sometimes her mother cries for her. The family mutt, Mitzy, also cries for Jayne Elaine, a whining sobbing cry, like she's been caged up for two days with no one to bark to and no face to lick.
Mitzy's always been a good friend to Jayne Elaine, at least that's what I'm told. I only know Mitzy from the pictures on the walls in her aunt's house and the stuffed toy that resembles Mitzy that Jayne Elaine takes with her wherever her bed may be. Jayne's aunt tells the story of the time that Jayne fell down the basement stairs, only two years old, when no one was looking. It was Mitzy who howled and barked at the top of the steps letting her now-dead father know that his child was in pain. Thanks to Mitzy's care, the bleeding of Jayne's cut brow only lasted two and half minutes before receiving medical attention. After that, whenever Mitzy went in to wake up Jayne in the morning, the first thing she would do before barking or walking on Jayne's back was lick the scar left by her childhood mishap, even once the chunky tissue had receded to the point of indistinguishability.
Mitzy's grey coat never aged, even as she passed into the latest years of her arthritic life, a respectable seventeen years in total. Even at the passing of her best friend, Jayne's tear ducts were incapable of producing any more of the clear purplish liquid, with a slight grape flavor. Jayne's mood shifted only slightly, but definitely. Everything she painted for the next six months came out in platinum and slate. Jayne's daily ritual of lunchtimes with Mitzy were replaced with silent hours lying on her back in the Rotary Field, looking into the sky. Sometimes I lie with her for the hour. Every cloud looks like Mitzy.
Mitzy's always been a good friend to Jayne Elaine, at least that's what I'm told. I only know Mitzy from the pictures on the walls in her aunt's house and the stuffed toy that resembles Mitzy that Jayne Elaine takes with her wherever her bed may be. Jayne's aunt tells the story of the time that Jayne fell down the basement stairs, only two years old, when no one was looking. It was Mitzy who howled and barked at the top of the steps letting her now-dead father know that his child was in pain. Thanks to Mitzy's care, the bleeding of Jayne's cut brow only lasted two and half minutes before receiving medical attention. After that, whenever Mitzy went in to wake up Jayne in the morning, the first thing she would do before barking or walking on Jayne's back was lick the scar left by her childhood mishap, even once the chunky tissue had receded to the point of indistinguishability.
Mitzy's grey coat never aged, even as she passed into the latest years of her arthritic life, a respectable seventeen years in total. Even at the passing of her best friend, Jayne's tear ducts were incapable of producing any more of the clear purplish liquid, with a slight grape flavor. Jayne's mood shifted only slightly, but definitely. Everything she painted for the next six months came out in platinum and slate. Jayne's daily ritual of lunchtimes with Mitzy were replaced with silent hours lying on her back in the Rotary Field, looking into the sky. Sometimes I lie with her for the hour. Every cloud looks like Mitzy.
Comments