The NaPoWriMo prompt couldn’t be more appropriate.
My husband had a dream a few nights ago, more vivid than any dream he had ever had before. In the dream, he walked into the kitchen where I was preparing a meal. The children were in and out, talking. He stopped in surprise. Finbar was lying at my feet, long nose resting on his paws, his ears raised in recognition. “I can see Finbar!” I replied, “He’s always there, but only we can see him.” “Not the children?” I shook my head. “Only us.” Husband crouched down and stroked him, and the touch ran through the dream and tingled in his waking fingers, the silky-smooth hair of his head and ears, the longer, coarser hair of his neck and flanks. “He never left,” I said.
That same morning, I checked up on our application with the rescue association, for two friends that had touched our hearts, inseparable companions of misfortune. The reply was immediate. They’ll be on their way in the next few weeks. Finbar will have company soon.
Air is electric in spring it buzzes with joy even in sorrow.
After years of sterling service for five human children, the cot mattress has passed to child number six. It’s just about long enough, but it wasn’t designed for galgo legs. Mind you, we bought the biggest dog basket in existence, and that wasn’t either.
Four trips to the hospital, another two programmed for my eye, but it seems to be responding to the treatment. We’ll know what the damage is by the end of October when the inflammation ought to have completely subsided. Now I can concentrate on Finbar. He’s going downhill very fast now. He did everything too fast. I looked at the Oracle, and she told me what she sees. Not consolation or false hopes. Quel che sarà, sarà.
Even friends we love slip into the shadows, little by little, one unsteady step after the next. No imperious cry can stop them when the ears no longer prick at the sound of their name. No tongue has the words to hold back the inevitable end.
We watch the blue above, how it spreads its clouds untroubled by the tears below,
and all the honey sweet scents are rank; the day is red with impotent anger.
The spring will not come again. There is no sweet in the bitter of this sleep, only the sadness of never.
Today is Finbar’s official birthday. A guesstimate by the vet when he was brought to the shelter, since nobody knows when he was born. For lunch he had his usual ‘soup’ of rice, lentils, carrots, tomatoes and potatoes with a portion of minced beef. Today, his soup had an added chicken stock cube, and as a birthday treat his meal was garnished with a boiled egg and a slice of Cantal cheese. You’re not fourteen every day.
Time flows in concentric circles or parallel tracks running at different speeds, the stars we see, the stars we don’t, light issuing from present darkness. For dogs, time races in the fast lane.
gloomy day of false summer—leaves hang waiting for the rain