Not Yet

The mop was the same one I always used, but that afternoon it felt like an anchor. The muddy paw prints across the tile were not as evenly paced as they once were, smudged in places where the rough pads dragged under the strain of aching limbs. A tiny pond sat stagnant under the elevated dish. I strained my ears for the jingling of collar tags that had hung silently on the hook for the last week. My eyes began to burn. I put the mop away once again. His last walk through the kitchen could stay a while longer.

Max Girard