"At night, only at night, her mind grows timber-thickso dense and brambled,
there's no way to find her, let alone bring her back to bed. Gone, then, is the
tumbleweed-haired, half-feral kid who rode her goat every morning to the
preschool up the hill. The kid who by fourth grade volunteered at the local vet
clinic, where she sat with the grieving, while their pets died. More than once,
I've been approached at the post office or market by people who say that Ruby
has a gift, something beyond bedside manners. "It was like she could see what
was on the other side," an elderly woman told me after euthanizing a beloved
dachshund. "Like she knew exactly where that dog was going." By going, the woman
means going out of the body, going beyond. In Ruby's case, it means going to bed
with nocturnal epilepsy, a condition that causes seizures while she
sleeps."
A child and her dog navigate the forest of epilepsy in this powerful piece.
