The leash still hangs on its hook,
as if it does not know
it lost its purpose now.
The bowl sits there,
empty and waiting,
as if it has not yet understood
that it won’t be filled again.
The squeaky rubber chicken under the couch
hasn’t made a sound in weeks.
It waits
for a mouth
that won’t return.
It is a quiet emptiness.
Not the screaming kind.
The kind that settles.
Slowly.
Like dust in the corners.
No familiar clicking on the floor,
no steady breath beneath the table,
no tiny percussion of welcome
as if coming home were
the greatest event in the world.
The house has lost its pulse.
Outside, I walk our paths.
I tell myself they remember you.
I stop
without meaning to.
My body waits
for a gentle push on the leash
for that small, happy, forward rush
as if every bush
were a new discovery.
They say it was “just” a dog.
A frail, sixteen-year-old dog,
difficult because he struggled,
who lost track of where outside began,
who slowed us down,
who needed more than he gave.
And still.
No one explains
why the heart feels achingly missing.
Maybe
because unconditional closeness
has no substitute.
Something remains open.
Not loud.
Not dramatic.
Just a space beside me
that keeps going
even though you do not.