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.