The vet euthanized one of Tara’s turtles last night.
His name was Wayne. He was small and starving. His shell had become as thin as paper in his last moments. I cried a lot. It seems silly to cry so hard over such a small creature, but the loss of any life is a loss for all Life. Perhaps it was his infancy that struck me: that Wayne had no decent shot at outliving us as most turtles should — born full of parasites, he had no shot. He just… he just didn’t have a decent shot at living. He was named after a character in Brandon Sanderson’s novels, his brother’s name is Wax. Like the moon: Wax and Wayne. Wax is basking in the sunlight behind me, oblivious to his brother’s waning, his brother’s passing.
After the last two years, I am now one well-acquainted with death.
I’m writing a story about Wayne and death and outliving the ones you love. It’s the only tribute I can offer.
Rest in peace, baby turtle.