Secrets are rarely private. The hush-hush of a dream gets verbalized.
When I was eleven my guinea pig, Black Magic, expired. Her sleek glossy fur and animated eyes altered forever. Squeezing her dainty paw with my thumb and forefinger, I held tight to its icy touch. I knew, but I placed her in a different place beyond death. It just took a second.
At night she visited me. We’d bike together; she in my basket, me behind, wind in our hair. We went to the park where yellow flowers bloomed. Seven lovely days—and then she disappeared—revealing the unmistakable truth.