The Forgetting Season Gideon’s fur finally grew back, two years after you shaved him that summer, despite his undercoat. His dappled coat grew out jagged all through fall and into tulip blooms when I brushed it out and set aside winter weight we no longer needed. Millions of strands clumped in my trash, a pound at least. The last few ounces smelled of the house on Gale: sweet mildew, salmon smoking in Mom’s skillet, detergent, the last vanilla latte you made for us to share. You let me hold him all the way home, even after winning rock-paper-scissors. It was the kindest thing you ever did. We knew it meant he would love me more. He sleeps in the cradle behind my knees.
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