for Monet, my dog
You do not speak,
but you say everything
in the way you lean in,
just enough
to let the ache in my chest know
that it’s been heard.
You are not loud,
but your silence is a hymn—
a soft, wordless vow
sung in the rustle of fur against flannel,
the quiet click of nails
on hardwood
as you follow me
room to room,
never letting me be alone
for long.
The world has cracked around us before—
you saw it happen.
You smelled the sorrow
before I could name it.
You curled around the pieces
until I could hold them again.
They say we don’t deserve dogs.
They’re right.
We don’t.
We never could.
But still,
you stay.
Still,
you love.
And I will build a life soft enough
for your paws.
I will carve out space
for naps in the sunlight
and walks that never rush.
I will not ask you to be less
clingy,
less loyal,
less you.
Because you,
my silent sentinel,
are not a footnote
to my grief.
You are a chapter
in my healing.
A verse in my heart.
And every day I have you,
I will try to be worthy
of the kind of love
that asks for nothing
and gives
everything.
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