The tears are out, I think.

The tears are out, I think. The tears anyway that come like a surge, like vomit, like a pour of rain.

The space she left feels less cold, less dark, less deep. As if we three (along with time) are filling in the shadows of her spirit with light. These days, I hardly look for her, wait for her, feel my feet around for her or have the urge to click my mouth for her.

A few days ago, logic returned. This was best. It felt the worst, but it was best. Best for her and best for our daughter. Best even for me and him.

I don't know when we will have a dog again. I don't know if we will have a dog again.

Fifteen days later, I still miss her tongue mopping the floor, her greeting me at the door, her eyes, her run, her fur... I don't forget the bad worry or the bad bites, the bad barks or the bad frights, but now that she's gone, I much rather remember her tongue mopping the floor, her greeting me at the door, her eyes, her run, her fur...