By Lori Zavada
Pensacola Branch, Florida

 

It’s the perfect time to write, except for the tick, tick, ticking

of the ceiling fan tossing an emptiness about. It’s only been one hour.

I turn to step over you, but you aren’t here.

I reach for the treat tin, but you aren’t here.

I refill your water bowl, but you aren’t here.

I hear you snore – impossible – you aren’t here!

I try to accept the temporary absence and the tightness that

settles into my shoulders. We do this every month, but

every time is an assault – an ominous foreshadowing

I want nothing to do with. I get the call that groom day is

finally over.

Did I grab my purse?

Lock the door?

Look for traffic?

Did I forget to pay?

For now, life resumes and we’re both content. You curl up

with a treat on an oversized pillow. I step over you and sit

down to write, taking note of the quiet ceiling fan that hoovers

above me.