Six Years, Eight Months, 23 Days

Mom called me before eleven o’clock that morning. Little Bonnie was gone. Buried under the burning bushes, her favorite spot Carrie-Bri said. Six years, eight months, and 23 days. She had lived a happy and very good life at the Big House.

My “flu” or whatever from Tuesday seemed to have disappeared; just a little tired. So when I picked Puck up from school and he begged to go over to the Big House anyway, I agreed.

Rose had come over too, working at the dining room table on her laptop, talking about upcoming lay-offs.

“Why do they do that stuff to people right before the holidays? It’s stupid. One year, they laid-off veterans on Veteran’s Day. That’s a lawsuit waiting to happen.”

Carrie was pretty tired. Only two hours of sleep snuggling with her fluffy little girl the night before.

Mom had finished putting up the tree, spreading out the tinsel, and had started homemade potato soup and whole wheat biscuits in the kitchen.

Puck opened the Puck & Grandma Box to find orange molding “clay” which he fashioned into a pistol and waited to dry. Then watched old Christmas films in the living room.

Just before dinner, El Oso texted me. He had left work early before the protestors started shutting down streets again.

“The truck just died.”

It was clearly one of those weeks.

Sometime after traffic and 6:30 El Oso and I got back to the Big House, leaving his truck – flashers on – outside some mini mansion in Ladue, tow truck to follow some time later.

We caught up on a brief dinner before the boys headed home in the Mazda, leaving me with Mom’s Fit, on lease.

I stayed longer to watch a goofy movie with the girls (sans Rose, always on the run), while Dad picked up Culver’s mixers for those interested. So we had some laughs anyway.

Bonnie

Beloved Bun Bun

Born: March 10, 2008

Hopped over the Rainbow Bridge: December 3, 2014