One Art and Another (A story of loss)
My name is not Genie.
My name is Sekani. But also Genie. My life already sucks, right? Well, there's more, but let's start from the beginning.
I was the youngest of six puppies and the only boy. She named me Sekani. I didn't know my father, but mom said he was a good man, and he was ran over by a truck while coming home with her food. My mom had to see him die, and she had to deliver us knowing we'll never know our dad. Well she did that. That was the beginning of my story. I was born, and I had already begun living my life of the art.
This is not a story of my life. This is a story of art. The art of losing. This is a story of loss.
My first loss was before I came to life. Bearable? Yes! Because I didn't know my father, and I had no memory of him. So, I didn't have to forget him.
Well, here's why my name is not Genie, but also Genie. Before the war life was great. We'd gotten used to our daily lifestyle. Playing at the downtown park, chasing birds, swimming in the mud, and going back home. We didn't have a home like other dogs did, living with humans and living a fancy life— No. We didn't have a house, we had a home. Because after all, I'd later know that home is where your mother is. And once you lose your mother, you'll always be homeless.
The humans started the war. Humans fighting against humans, for whatever reason we don't know, but we were affected. I woke up earlier that morning, and left for the beach. The beach was always crowded once the sun comes out, so I wanted to go there before the humans and their rich dogs would crowd it and chase us away. They didn't want street dogs near their dogs. And we had to hide from Animal Control too.
The beach was quiet, and I loved staring at the waves and listen to the sound of the sea. I did so for half an hour, then I heard a large sound coming from the sea side. I stood up, and counted the airplanes. I saw eight. I don't remember much, but other sounds were louder for me to hear, when quickly people ran, fell, and fires bombed the town. It was when I remembered that it might be "the war" mom was talking about.
"We need to stick together. When the war the humans are talking about start, we have to run away together." My mother had said, mostly to me.
I ran helter skelter, making my way back to the tunnel, back home, but a huge explosion happened on the street in front of me. That is when I realized I won't make it home. Not alive. I had to seek cover. The bullets were flying, and I began to be scared. I didn't fear death. No, I didn't fear bullets and fire. I feared loss. I was about to experience my second loss. I was about to lose home. And I did.
My second loss was terrifying. Because it was real. Bearable? No. Because I knew I had a family. I knew I had home. And I knew love because of home.
I rolled my self next to a rubbish trash can besides a shop. Everything was terrifying. Soldiers running, blood spilling, noise deafening. A man fell next to me. He was hit and blood was spilling from on top of his hip bone. But he didn't die. He looked at me and saw I was terrified. And during my biggest loss, I met Steve.
Steve took me, covered me with his jacket, and flew with me to Poland. That was when I left Kiev. Home. Brokenhearted.
He took good care of me. I slept on my bed. I ate well. He gave me baths. And he read poetry with me. My favorite was "One Art." Steve recited the poem every day. I liked it, because it was about loss. And so it made me think of home.
I wanted to master the art of loss and not be hurt by it. It seemed to work because Steve was always there. So he kept me distracted. He named me Genie. I grew to get used to my new life, my new name, my new best friend, my new house... And I was longing to call it a home.
Until... Until I did. I finally let go of memories. I finally found solace. I finally got to love everything and tried on a new art; the art of forgetting. It seemed to work, too. And I was happy.
One day I climbed up on Steve's table while he was taking a bath. It had books and I tried to open my favorite poem using my tongue. I couldn't. I needed help. Steve came in and spotted me. He knew I loved it when he read. He liked reciting while I'll sit on his lap and listen. So he came and helped me.
"Here you are, big guy. What are you reading." He lifted me up with his left hand and opened "One Art," our favorite poem, by the other. I was waving my tale and gestured him to read on. He never smiled while reading it, but it's okay. I understood. It was a poem of loss.
When he finished reading, we went to bed. I slept on his bed that day, when my third loss occurred.
The men broke into the bedroom. I woke up quickly and tried to fight. They pushed me to the corner and shot. Luckily they missed me, and luckily I escaped to the dining room. Steve tried to reach to the safe for his gun but I heard three bangs. Three loud bangs and they ran outside. I ran in to check on Steve. He saw me, and I saw yet another loss. His eyes were grey, and his mouth was red, dripping blood. He managed to speak, and his last words were, "Genie... I love you." And he never spoke again.
Loss, the greatest feeling that mounts greater than love. Because it always reminds you all your other losses. I cried out loud, calling my neighbors. I cried out loud, and I heard sirens. The people came. They covered Steve with a bag, and they took me to Animal Control.
"The art of losing isn't hard to master," the poet said. She lied. The art of losing was hard to be mastered. In order to deal with the art of loss one had to master yet another art: the art of forgetting. And yet it was impossible. Each loss that you were going to face for the rest of your life would make you remember, and the more you remember what you had, the more difficult was it to master the art of losing.
I sat in the darkness, lonely in the cage, waiting for another story. Another man to adopt me. Another series of losses. Another tragedy.
And while I waited, I remembered home. And I cried. And I cried.
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