Long Dead Dogs

There is enough sun at dawn to see the dog's breath when she barks. It's still cold but the shift away from winter has begun. Maybe I can wash windows soon; maybe I can feel warmth below the skin. Sun on occasion says that maybe I should move the painting so that it doesn't become faded. “Art is an investment” we said. Yet this mosaic in particular was home when we didn't know where to find it.

Off in the distance a familiar trill slices through a misty March. Though I cannot see him, I understand what he is saying; the red-winged blackbird settles the matter.

When my daughter comes home from college, I put fresh tulips in her room to say I missed you; I'm so proud of you; You make my world brighter. The boy and the girl and the mom and the dad will vote together as a family for the first time on Tuesday. We don't have the options we want but, “The people have spoken, those bastards.”

The greenhouse work persists, develops and grows more rigorous. Every day my body hesitates and lilts with pain, though it would do that now without the work. There is a pill case to keep disease and aging going in a palatable direction.

Dogs age too. She sits on the stoop shivering, close to the door, facing a world she cannot catch. Yet she doesn't come in when asked. At dinner the other night, I sat between two friends conversing about a dog sitter. One friend's son comes to stay with Kora when we have to be away so I added my emphatic endorsement to his capabilities. Only, without thought, the name of our long dead dog came out of my mouth instead. How strange it must be for deep, abiding love to live in a forgotten darkness. And, how utterly startling to have it rise and reveal itself all at once.

I love who is here and not here. The cardinal stays all winter and brings joy. The red-winged blackbird arrives when it's time and brings joy. The sparrow finds treasure in the winter wasteland and brings joy. As humans we have told ourselves to dictate where everything belongs. Yet we have forgotten that everything belongs – right here, as it is. I have no name for this or you or the deep and abiding love that insists on diving deep and resurfacing for air when it must.

Rime on roofs. Sunlight on silken strands. My own reflection in disappearing ice. Are there not infinite ways that light shows the way?