I Have Only Seen Papa Cry Once

Our vinyl records, cousins, pink cosmos, raspberry bushes, Mom’s strawberry jam, wild huckleberries, the stoop, my school uniform, swing set, grandmother, bicycle, Ksusha doll, best friend—all left behind for a new beginning in the US. Papa carried our doghouse to a neighbor, and then the dog, pressed to his chest, a little mutt with a round belly, stubby legs, and beige eyebrows curled in a permanent frown. When he returned, his eyes were red and watery; his palms opened at his sides, questioning the emptiness. He swore the dog cried, too, the look of betrayal in his animal eyes—unbearable. He buried his face in the nape of Mom’s neck, their figures pressed together in the kitchen, his big hands balled into tight fists behind her back.

Olga Katsovskiy, writer/editor/educator, works in health care and teaches creative writing classes at the Cambridge Center for Adult Education. She serves in editorial roles for several literary magazines and drinks a lot of coffee. Her essays have appeared in Atticus Review’s The Attic, Barzakh, Brevity Blog, Gone Lawn, Pithead Chapel, and elsewhere. Find more at theweightofaletter.com. 

This essay is a Short Reads original.