Dawn

I shook myself awake, trying to leave the dream. My pillow stuck to my cheek, wet with tears. I had forgotten Sophie had died. And then, I remembered. But it was way too close, like it happened yesterday, so I had to get up and splash water on my face.

When Winston died, Sophie sniffed all over the yard, tail and ears drooping like Eeyore's, and walked over to the front fence, where she stood, searching the sidewalk, up and down. We sat in the middle of the lawn, staring at the front gate, waiting. The next night was the Fourth of July, so we sat on the front porch, top step, side by side, with my arm around her, fireworks in surround-sound, watching to see if he would trot around the corner. But Winston never came back, and neither will my sweet Sophie.

All loss feels a little like this, the loss of a friend, the loss of a pet, the loss of a book. There's that sinking that comes with something not being right, coupled with restless waiting. I think we are waiting to stop waiting, but some waitings feel like black holes that drag on forever.