Made Brussels sprouts; no insistent eyes awaiting trimmed leaves, an odd favorite treat.
Shoveled snow; no tail wags or triumphant zoomies upon my much anticipated return.
Walked in the dark stopping short in the dining room, forgetting you weren’t there to trip me in the requisite spot.
Refilled your water bowl, knowing the change in level is only evaporation.
Searched for the dropped piece of popcorn that you would have happily claimed.
Sun hits the coffee table; it’s not covered in a soft, omnipresent film of fine fur, shaken into the air after every stretch, every nap, every romp with a toy.
I don’t clear a path through the snow in the back yard. I don’t salt those stairs or pull your leashes free from the ice.
I let the house be silent. No snores. No click clack of nails across the hardwood floors. No annoyed whines demanding full attention. No aggressive ear flaps with every head shake. No thumpy pounces onto a squeaky pig or crinkly chicken.
I listen to the negative space of you.
I think I hear you sigh.
It’s just me.
I bring in your collar from its spot on the long lead out front.
I empty your water bowl.
Jen Capra 