Mondays

I think most things are made up of little secrets.  Like my dog, heavy on my leg, fast asleep, all limbs and fur and freckly nose; a heart that beats like mine.  I wonder if she misses her brother, her human 'dad,' all those afternoons we spent at the park throwing balls?

I wonder if he misses us, thinks about us as much as I do about them.  Wondering if they're okay, if he's in love, if he feels like he's able to breathe and laugh really hard again.

And when I fidget in the night, how someone else's hands reach out and pull me in close, so I can smell his stale breath and earthy skin.  How he tells me, "I've never loved as much as I love you."

My heart aches for family again, four walls disconnected from this, grass growing out back.

The chance to let go.