ˇFor the Herds of Grandmas and Dogs Dying
By Natalie Padilla Young
It feels good, doesn’t it? Just throwing something
away, not worrying about how
to recycle or finding the perfect spot.
And isn’t a room much louder once emptied? Bare
shelves — no towels, no blankets, no books
to absorb the echoes.
Then, with all the rooms boxed up, it’s time to move on
to the next house ready to be quieted.
*
Look. There’s a dead bird.
Oh — it’s an owl.
Is it? It’s all scrunched up.
To him (who made me look) it’s just a bundle
of feathers.
To me it’s a head with a beak.
He sees no owl. I see no body.
*
Becoming an erosion —
a canyon or an amphitheater —
the difference is in the method:
A canyon formed from a steady source of flowing
water, a river.
An amphitheater carved with rain and wind,
earth’s movement.
Experts on grief say
one must grieve each sorrow individually. Or else
the griefs mesh
grinding away larger and larger spaces of sadness.
*
Aren’t we always looking
for a holiday miracle? A gluten-free pound cake,
a comforter, a summoning
spell — the cure for all this
subtraction — a wish granted. Blow out the candle
and wham-o:
Negotiation complete. The grandmas are back, the owl
and my dog.
Raise our eyes to the sky, so solid blue
it may as well be white. Give thanks
to whatever we can,
because we can. Race down the sidewalk. We’ll never stop
running, the herd of us, again.
Natalie Padilla Young is the author of “All of This Was Once Under Water” from Quarter Press (2023), and the editor-in-chief of Sugar House Review in Salt Lake City.
This story appears in the July/August 2025 issue of DeseretMagazine. Learn more about how to subscribe.