It’s just so
empty. I miss the sounds that were here when you were here. I
miss hearing your footsteps on the kitchen floor and the jingling
of your collar when you got up from a nap. Sometimes when I drop
some food on the floor by mistake, I wait for you to come and lap
it up, without thinking/remembering you’re not here
anymore, of course. When I come home from school, I’m about
to call out to you, and then I remember. You’re gone.
You’re never going to chase butterflies or fetch toys or
chew on your bones anymore, or go on leashed walks and stop to
sniff every patch of grass and every sign and every streetlight.
You’re never going to swim in the lake, the pond, the pool,
or wag your tail and sit in front of me with your puppy dog
eyes.
You’re never going to catch popcorn perfectly when
it’s thrown into your mouth, or sleep on the carpet with
your legs sprawled out.
You’re really gone.