Member-only story
Beyond Words
Intersections
Tonight, at my desk, considering the next move for Chapter 32 of my WIP, I listen to David Helping, Steve Roach, and Jon Jenkins. I get lost in the interwoven melodic layers through my earbuds.
The music makes me think about my recent loss, my girl Cassie. What I miss about her is the ‘us’. We had our routines, our times of the day and night, unspoken directions.
Intersections.
I miss those quiet times at the little rental up north, my independence. I miss rushing home to her, to see her tail and body wag underneath the covers she so peacefully relied on, my winter jacket still on.
She was home.
A dear friend painted a picture of her on a square canvas, which sits on a shelf near the kitchen windows. I look at her and feel the softness of her face, the gentleness of her eyes, and lay my hands on the pit in my chest where she used to ‘flop’.
Today, right now, there are four unconditionally loving dogs sleeping on my side of the bed in the other room, keeping it warm, while I write into the night. The lights on the dog fencing outside my office window flicker as the sun recedes. Soon they will be on, casting shadows on the marred wooden pickets, lighting up the small space of night.
