Since then, he slept against my hip every night, followed my voice through the apartment, and complained whenever dinner was five minutes late.
“People keep choosing the puppies.”
He hadn’t fixed my grief.
He’d simply made sure I didn’t carry it alone.
After leaving the cemetery that afternoon, I stood too quickly beside my car.
The pavement shifted.
I caught the door handle.
“That was graceful,” I muttered.
He hadn’t fixed my grief.
Benny pressed against my shoe.
I’d skipped lunch.
I didn’t want to drive while I felt lightheaded, so I went into a café across the road with DOGS WELCOME on a chalkboard.
A golden retriever was asleep beneath a table near the window.
It was enough for me.
I’d skipped lunch.
***
A waitress approached with a smile.
“Oh, look at him. He’s cute!”
“He’d be flattered if he could see you, dear,” I said.
