January 7, 2020

vigil

We think the dog might be dying. Sometimes it feels like the world might be dying.
The rheumy corners of her eyes, her body weaving in confusion. She is so old.
At night, I scoop her from the couch, carry her downstairs, place her on the bed. 
She settles her diminishing weight at our feet. I listen for her breathing, always.
Mornings are sharp with light. The view from the window is so beautiful it hurts. 
There is an unfathomable fire burning. An ocean is rattling its cage. The dog 
does not want to be fed any longer. She gazes past the artifice of the bowl.
Our rituals have lost their meaning and use. She knows what she is headed toward.
I’ve read the thing to do is keep her warm, quiet, tell her it’s going to be okay. 
When I lean in, I wonder which of us I’m talking to.