09/10/2025
Don’t cry because my paws are quiet now.
Listen—my love still makes noise.
Did you think I’d leave so easily?
I am not gone.
I am the gentle thump you swear you hear
when no one else is in the room.
I am the space on the couch
that warms faster than it should,
as if fur still lingers there.
When you reach for the leash out of habit,
don’t be ashamed—
that’s me tugging at memory,
asking you to smile instead of ache.
Can you see me?
I live in the soft places:
the tilt of a dog’s head you pass on the street,
the sudden brush of a cat’s tail in a stranger’s arms,
the pawprints you see in clouds,
shaped too perfectly to be chance.
If you whisper my name in the quiet,
I’ll answer with the wind.
If you dream of me at night,
that’s not fantasy—it’s visitation.
I’m still yours,
just practicing love in a different form.
So what do you do when grief feels heavy?
Sit with it, as you once sat with me.
Stroke it, hold it,
let it rest its head in your lap.
That’s how you’ll feel me again—
not in the silence of loss,
but in the weight of devotion
that never leaves.
Look for me not in the empty bowl,
but in the joy of a tail you’ll see again someday.
Until then, remember this:
I am every small good thing—
the sunbeam on the floor,
the heart-shaped patch of shade,
the pawprint pressed softly into your soul.
