Having finished their grieving for the day, the others stumbled to their rooms where they placed their hearts on pillows beside their heads. But after wading through a flowing stream of arrangements and condolences, I still had loss in my boots, so I sat on a love seat in the living room to pull them off and pour them out.
The pulling was slow and the pouring was too. My head sagged and my chest heaved as I felt alone in that way you only do when the ones who raised you leave. It’s all you, you know? And you’re trying to remember the things they were able to get in before they got whisked through a door that only swings outward.
And there I was knowing I was already forgetting a third of it.
That’s when the dogs came over and put their faces in my lap.
“We’re here, fella.
Who’s a good boy?” they said.