Notes on an Execution

by Danya Kukafka

Lila’s third child would have been a girl after all. They would have named her Grace. She does not exist, but if she did, Grace would have become the executive director of the Columbus Zoo. She would have managed eight hundred employees, ten thousand animals, and a five-hundred-acre property. Grace’s favorite charge would have been the snow leopard: a lean, dignified animal with a lush coat of spotted white. After closing one night, a sweltering June, Grace would have found herself alone in the feline wing, the cleaning staff already gone home. She would have walked down to the leopard’s terrarium, intent on admiring before she said goodnight. She’d have stood at the entrance to the leopard’s high cage, stunned by the elegance of the animal—giant yellow eyes would have met hers. An invitation. She’d have unlocked the feeding door, her heart warning a patter as she inched forward, two steps. Forward, two more. The leopard would have watched as Grace slid to the floor against the interior wall, a smile snarling at its jaw. The leopard would have stalked slowly up to her, sniffed Grace’s outstretched hand in a whoosh of meaty breath. The animal would have unfurled its limbs, curled its long body into the nook where Grace’s armpit met her ribs. Together, they’d have slept. At dawn, Grace would have woken to a mouthful of fur, the leopard’s head resting gigantic on her knee. She would have thought: How gentle, this world. How tender, this mercy.