Artie

The house is hollow without Biscuit.  I couldn't be there either.  Artie bolted out the door when I arrived and hopped into the car. We went for our usual walk and thought about him without saying so.  We saw hawks along the way, beautiful hawks. This road was one of his favorites.

The hard part is going back.  Biscuit would shuffle behind me as I prepared the kibble, barking Hurry up, Hurry up as I would fill his bowl.  Sparkling eyes looking to mine.  Biscuit-bliss. He guzzled his dinner so loudly we would have to giggle.  When he finished, he would wait patiently while she finished hers and then as if we weren't noticing, he would sashay over to her bowl and lap up the tidbits she faithfully left for him. But tonight was different. While I was making her dinner, Artie shot from room to room to room, crying, looking, looking...

As I put her bowl down, it clunked into the awkward silence of Biscuit's absence. I used to think that an absence such as this created an echo--that each movement through a fixed routine would recall some small vibration of what was missing.  There would be something familiar in that.  Something reassuring.  A sense of I still hear you. But tonight, each step through our routine called forth nothing-ness, an awkward void of absence.

I had to leave quickly.  I couldn't help her.  She'll figure it out.  I bolted from the house to my car.  I looked up and saw clouds, and the hawks.  Concord grapes still scent the air.  The road home was soft, beautiful.  I passed the orchard on the hill where the three of us used to run.  I looked at it awhile, and kept looking more.  It was one of his favorites...