There was a hole in her heart.
Sadness hung thick and heavy
as the William Morris drapes.
She felt lost –
adrift on the battered old sofa.
Loneliness pulled at her ankles,
following her from room to room.
With her husband out at work,
the silence was suffocating.
Routine unravelled.
Conversation – one-sided.
She daren’t step into the garden,
nor face the familiar faces outside —
no longer part of the pack.
Meals were eaten alone,
without interruption,
without the scraping of scraps —
or those eyes …
Nights lost their warmth —
that steady breath, that familiar scent,
at the foot of the bed — the indent —
she daren’t look.
She had been blessed with a few more weeks:
knowing, preparing,
making each day the best it could be.
And she did.
And they were.
Through the agony,
through the tears —
a quiet joy —
before the time finally came.
And when it did,
her world shattered.
Her absence, insufferable.
After a short spell,
she smiled,
hesitantly and announced:
“I’ve got another one.
She will help mend my broken heart.”
“There is sorrow enough in the natural way
From men and women to fill our day;
But when we are certain that dogs have souls,
How can we not feel the deep holes
That are left in our hearts when they go?”
“The Power of the Dog” by Rudyard Kipling 1902
©emmalumsden 28/04/25
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