Flash Fiction: I Don’t Notice

I don’t notice my dog growing old,

the way his eyes are cloudy

or how his hips stiffen up and how

hard it can be to stand up.

I don’t notice how he falls

down the stairs in the

dark or how he stumbles

when he leaps across a

small creek or how he struggles

to jump up into the truck.
I don’t notice when he doesn’t

join me in bed during the night

prefering to stay on the

couch alone with an old bone.

I don’t notice when he’s still

there in the early morning

and I put the kettle on, trying not

to panic, watching him for a

tail wag or an open

eye or something

anything.

Please breathe

Please wag

For me

For us

I’m not ready

And he opens his eyes and I notice how he lights up seeing me next to him on the couch with my mug of coffee starting the day together like any other.

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Mary

Cancer. Fuck. Fuck you, cancer. You took my friend Mary. You took her last night and she’s gone. Gone from this world, off to another, and I can’t see her again. It’s been almost a year of fighting for her life, a private battle, one for her and Stacy and their family. There was nothing that I could do, not really, knowing chemo was wearing away her reserves, yet when we’d meet up, every few months for lunch, Mary still shone, laughed, and told stories. That’s just how she was, a positive creative strong feisty funny friend who stayed in my world even as I drove off, drove back, we’d meet, the three of us and we’d laugh, tell stories over a beer and burger at Blue Corn, together the three of us, twenty years of us coming together. This morning the news came saying that Mary had passed on, a beautiful goodbye, said Stacy, reassuring their friends, reassuring me. There’s magic in having the chance to say goodbye, knowing you are loved. This is the paradox, even as I walk and cry in the rain. Mary is with us in my stories, in me, she lives inside me. Mary is with me still. In some way. She is. Mary. Mary.

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