 How do I live up to the devotion of this sentient being who waits at the bottom of the stairs? Who pushes into a trot when I turn to see if she’s keeping up? Who clambers to her feet with expectation, every time I rise from my chair?
Kate collapsed on the slippery kitchen floor yesterday. She fell last week, climbing up the mudroom stairs. I pick her up, massage the bony swells of her knees, and try to deserve her unfaltering fidelity. But -- must I respond with caresses every time she nudges with her long nose, panting her putrid breath in my face? I feel ashamed when I turn her away. Devotion comes with a weight we don’t always cherish. I try to come close and meet her piercing gaze at least once a day. I tell her, “Thank you for taking such good care of me. You are my dear friend.” My 60th year in 60,000 words Day 11: 154 words, TOTAL = 1942; 58,058 remaining |
AuthorRobin Clifford Wood is a writer and writing teacher. She lives in central Maine with her husband and dogs, loves to be outdoors, and enjoys ever-expanding horizons through her grown children and their multi-species families. Archives
March 2021
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