Tomorrow, you'll carry my boxes to the car and leave Bruno's dishes for last. I'll forget to empty his bowls, and his water will splash all over you like a flood of warm memories, making us both laugh in a way we had forgotten we could. Bruno will pull at the edge of your coat with his teeth and look from us to the door and back again with his big, wet brown eyes like he's asking for another chance. You'll rub his ears and sigh as you hand me his leash, the one we used for long walks around the lake where we first met and shared our stories, stole kisses, and planned for our future. I'll take a deep breath and hold it longer than most, as if waiting for something else to be said but then Bruno and I will turn and walk out the door. You'll watch us drive away, your brown eyes now wide and wet and maybe filled with regret and an unasked question. What will Bruno think as you shrink and disappear through the car's back window as we head down the street? Does he believe we'll be back?
But this summer evening, Bruno trots between us on the path as we move around our lake, disillusionment pushed aside for one last walk with Bruno in what had once been our happy place. Bruno stalls and stops at every bush and tree, holding us together with pure will. He discovers footprints only he can see and searches for recipes of lasting love left by the couples who passed by before us. It's getting late, and wispy orange and pink wings fan out across a darkening blue sky as the sun kisses the horizon goodbye. You pick up the pace first, and I follow suit, but Bruno resists and plants his bottom by the empty bench we sat on when we first agreed to part as if he knows there are more stories to tell, more things to be said. He stares at us with his big, wet, brown eyes and head cocked to one side, assessing the situation, perhaps hoping for a change. And then you look over at me and hold my gaze longer than you have in months, and my heart dances across the water like a skipping stone. Is this Bruno's canine intuition? Does he believe we're making a mistake?
Author's Note:
I've always lived in a more urban setting, but on the east coast of the US, with ample and easy access to New England beaches, ponds, lakes and rivers. Being anywhere near water brings me joy. When vacationing, I especially love the sounds of slow-rolling, lapping water, and waves crashing along the shoreline at dusk or in the evenings with the window down as I fall asleep. Walking briskly with my dog along the beach or around the path surrounding the local pond relieves stress and clears and settles my mind, allowing me to better process whatever is troubling me. And there's nothing like the smell of your dog's neck and ears as you scratch and nuzzle him before bed–pure love.
Margo has worked in public education for over thirty years and is the mother of two daughters and the best rescue dog ever, Harley. Margo's work has appeared in interesting places such as, Bending Genres, Bright Flash Review, Roi Fainéant Press, Twin Bird Review and Literally Stories. Twitter @67MGriffin.
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