"Zach Hughes - Mother Lode" - читать интересную книгу автора (Hughes Zach)

may think we're weeping for the dead. We're not, but that's all right. We're
weeping for ourselves, and that's permissible because it hurts so damned
badly. God knows how badly it hurts, so he gives us tears to wash away the
pain that makes us think that it might be best to just give up and join her.
The tears help us get through it and go on doing what we have to do."

Remembering, Erin wept harder. She was so lost in her misery,
weeping, as her father had said, for herself, that she didn't at first notice a
small sound at her feet. It was only when she felt a light touch on her knee
that she lifted her head quickly to look into a pair of steady, large,
chocolate brown eyes peering up at her from a bedraggled mop of
blond-brown canine hair. In his last letter to her via blink beacon, her
father had told her about his new companion.

"Well, hi," she said, snuffling mucus, reaching for a tissue. "Hi, there."

The dog was standing on his hind legs, forepaws on her knee, his liquid,
warm eyes seeming to express concern. He was quite small, weighting only
seven pounds.

"I know you," she said.

He made a little sound.

She reached down to pick him up. He leapt away, stood looking at her
with his unwavering eyes.

"You're Mop," she said. "Dad named you that because he said when you
lie down you look like an old-fashioned rag mop."

At the sound of his name one of the dog's floppy ears stood up.

"I'll bet you've been lonely," she said. "Come here."

Mop was doubtful. He crept closer. Erin didn't move. He put his paws
on her knee, lowered his head so that his chin rested between his paws,
and looked up at her.

"Oh," she said. This time he allowed her to pick him up. "Poor little
fellow," she crooned. "Who's been looking after you?" Mop licked her hand
politely, just once.

There was space on New Earth to allow old-fashioned burial of the
dead. The Kenner family plot was situated two hundred yards from the
house in an area of knee-high grass dotted with purple and yellow
wildflowers. The dirt on John Kenner's grave was still fresh. Mop the dog,
who had guided her down a pathway familiar to Erin because it led to her
mother's grave, sat down and looked solemnly at the mound. The
headstone had been in place since the death of John Kenner's wife. On her
father's slab only the date of death had been left blank. She made a mental