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There is no word for your dog, for the exact shade of not-quite-dandelion-white they turn as they age. No word for the space between knowing that one day you will say goodbye, and saying goodbye. No word for the silence of a home that does not meet you at the door or raise its sleepy head at the turning of the lock. No word for the leg muscles that will always remember how to stand up without jostling the couch napper, for the instinct that will keep you curled up in bed, forever leaving room for the soft silhouette that slept broadside at your feet. No word for the length of time you will wait before putting away the empty food bowl, or sweeping up the fur under the couch, or washing the blanket with all the smells you tried to save. There is no word, no language for grief, but your dog does not need words. It needs only the name you gave it, spoken in those prismatic tones of love and delight and worry and adoration and impatience that shine through the light of your voice. Your dog taught you that love does not need words. It is a messy, stinky, drooling thing that helps itself up on the couch and eats out of the compost. Your grief will be much the same. Do not try to reason with it. It does not heed commands. It has no use for language. But hold on always to your dog’s name, because it is the first word you learned in the only language you will ever need. I just said goodbye to Tommy, my couch buddy, travelling companion and best friend. This is what he taught me.
Short story written by Peter Chiykowski
website twitter facebook instagramStory prompt taken from a photo by Inna Yasinska
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