Here And Now

Thursday, August 25: I was 20 years old on a bus to Albany that would spit me out into a frigid day. Later as we ducked down to sneak in a window of your apartment – you had no keys yet – I hit my head hard on the window frame. Staring at some ugly yellow fresh paint on walls that would soon be your kitchen, my eyes watered. My forehead stung.

That memory pops into my mind occasionally as one of those things that I’ll just never forget. This thought interrupted my morning coffee today, 24 years later, as I stood in my kitchen looking at my beautiful sick chocolate lab. Hershey woke up wagging, but slow. She barked as I opened the patio door. Up the steps, behind the house, and into the woods…

Wednesday, August 24: She’s asleep on my feet under the dining room table. It’s 3 am and I am flipping pages. Where did I leave off? The last chapter… Fifty pages to go and I wonder if I will get to the end before 4. Normally I read downstairs, keeping the billowing laundry pile company, but Hershey is hurting and wants be near me. She tried coming downstairs but Lily was an asshole about it. I relocated camp to the dining room, gave her some Tramedol, gave myself some wine, and we both enjoyed an hour without Lily licking Hershey’s oozing side.

 

I read, sip, pet her with my foot. Wag, thump, thump. I stare at my rippling reflection in the imperfect window glass. Darkness outside. Billowing…the word drags my mind away.

Have you ever seen a ship's sails billowing? A lazy wind shaping fabric. A redirection...

I rubbed my foot along her back again. Felt her warmth, and listened to her breathe.  

I have only here and only now -- a tiny dining room with Hershey under the table, my feet warm.