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You were in a puddle, upside-down.
Head was thrust in the water.
At twelve, I saved you
from your apparent suicide.
After Barney died,
you were my one pet.
I bought books and studied you until
Dad couldn't take me anymore.
You got me an "A" in biology.
When we left for Arizona,
I bought tortoise vitamins
and tortoise food.
Although you enjoyed lettuce
and worms more. Once, you ate
a lizard that frightened Theresa.
When Nicholas died,
I put you in the T.V. box.
I bought a baby pool and
put rocks in it for you to sit on.
Sometimes I put you in the fire pit
that we never used.
When Ben and Merissa left
I got a buddy rubber tortoise.
You weren't interested.
Then I lost you outside.
You were gone in the desert
rocks and backyard vines.
Theresa found you
under the kitchen window.
When Theresa started drugging
and when Amanda left for Virginia,
and when Dad was lost,
I let Michael play with you.
He was only five. He and I were alone
In that house in Phoenix.
When we fled to Virginia,
I kept you again in a shoe box.
We lived on a lake, in a small house.
Theresa stole our car and your box.
Michael and I found worms for you
and searched for other turtles.
When Dad and I moved to Washington,
you roamed the house.
Dad took pictures of you and we watched
you walk and swim and eat.
I played with you the day I was arrested
the day Dad punched me.
You were the only thing I carried
on the plane the day dad pushed
me to California. You frightened Mom.
Jake played with you a lot.
He introduced you to the dog and cat.
You ironically outlived Merissa's rabbit.
Few weeks before high school graduation
I bought you a real terrarium.
I put white gravel and a hot rock
at the bottom for you. Sometimes,
I filled it with newspaper shavings
or hay for you to hide under.
When I left for college,
Dad made a popsicle-stick house for you.
I brought you to the dorm, to the delight
of everyone that saw you. I took you
to a veterinarian who pronounced you
over 40 years old. You looked the same
as the day I found you, 8 years earlier.
You died over a weekend,
It was about a year ago.
I found you still, but you were always
still. Your once green shell was
now pink. I buried you in Dad's
backyard. An inappropriate place, I know.
Your terrarium is under the bathroom sink
and it's filled with creams, gels and soap.
Under which, resides dried lettuce leaves
and craters you dug.
JOE CANFIELD
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