Audio Transcription

I’m small. The kind of short where kitchen countertops tower over me, but the kind of big that I know how to find a chair, and drag it over, and climb into the seat all by myself. And the counter lip digs into my ribs, and my fingers find the dog.

I’m gentle, so careful, because if I pet it too hard it will break, she says. And it’s the only dog I have, so I’m afraid to touch it, but I can’t help myself. I let the short, red tails of fabric run through my fingers. The ribbon is silky, supple, silver-tongued and soothing.

Grandma gave me the dog, right before we all moved out of that two-flat. I don’t remember this exchange. And I hardly remember the move. I think there was a giant truck, even though we were going only two blocks south. And I know there were a few things I carried, by hand, from the old apartment to the new house. Grandma’s bow-adorned dog was one of them.

I embrace its fragile skin and secure it against my chest as I pick my way across the sidewalk cracks. I am extra careful, because I am still young enough to remember its name, but old enough to make the two-block trip alone. Which means that no one else sees how windy it is today. No one else sees what happens on the walk. When I get to the new house, the dog’s neck is naked.

Screen-printed Text

Grandma always saves bits of wrapping paper and ribbons. Especially at Christmas—and then she reuses them the next year.

When I go to pack the dog, and I pick it up off of her counter, it’s no surprise that its neck is naked.

“We’ll just find some other ribbon for it. Make sure you pack that in a box with bubble wrap—I’d hate for it to break.”

Mom and I load the box into the moving truck, and walk the two blocks south together.

I pilfer a new bow from a gift Grandma gives me that Christmas.