waking to a flat cloudy sky
the long dark morning of late fall, the slowest dawn
it hits me that it was not a dream
my grandparents used to live on long island sound, on a bluff with a view out over the water. one cold winter, the sound froze.
and where there had been motion, there was suddenly a jarring stillness.
yesterday when I came home, alone, my eyes moved to all of his places– seeking a glimpse
the kitchen under the highchair
the strange spot on the shoes by the door
the bathroom rug
all night my eyes kept vigil, seeking the tell tale slink or flicker of him.
“I see his tail” Della said once. And then said she was just pretending. But in that moment before she confessed, my heart leapt, as if.
today, I am busy and grateful for the busy. but my eyes seek the motion that has always been. the quiet company. My friend Lorraine reminds me that he is here differently now, and “here” has expanded into everywhere. But my eyes and heart ache for the familiar, the furry presence, the small reassuring movements of breath and tail and whisker.