Our lives are intertwined, yours and mine;
the untangling is beginning.
I see the rug lying in the bathroom
-- the one I could rarely put down with you here --
and it slams me in the stomach.
I call to you when I come home,
realizing in the next heartbeat that
you will never come running again,
you will never trot up the stairs beside me,
you will never again put your
paws on my shoulders
your nose under my chin
as I carry you.
I see your gray shape down on the landing,
waiting for food.
I blink
and it's a balled-up sweatshirt.
I see surreal tokens of you
your fur on the couch, on the shower curtain,
on the bathroom countertop
where you had taken to sitting as you patiently
waited for me after you finished eating.
Where you patiently waited that very last day
you were home,
waiting for me to realize that things were
not OK,
that nothing would be the same again.
I haven't yet washed my clothes that
hold your scent from the very last time
I touched you,
29 hours ago,
when you sat on my lap, eyes wide, ready to jump down
until the doctor gave you the drug
that would make you slump and be still forever.
But today is laundry day.
I'm sorry.
Time is relentless.
(With love to Casey -- 7/00 to 9/4/11)