Halle

The grass along the path we walk has been left to grow at will. Ebullient dandelions speed through at breakneck pace. She wanders into them because wandering is what she does now, though scents can still rivet her to a spot, where she’ll look up after a while to stare as if bewildered about where she is, exactly.

She’s inexact in many ways now. At the foot of the stairs she raises a paw to the first step then puts it down again, rocks from side to side, over and over, before beginning the long stumble upward.

The dandelions don’t stumble. They drive onward from yellow mane to bare stem.They’ve sent their parachutes into the heavens for the next generation. My dog has no parachutes but she’s dispersing all the same. I hear it in her breathing, which sounds like repeatedly dragging forward a heavy bag and letting it fall. It’s hard work breathing yourself deeper into the world. Soon I’ll see her in the dandelions, the grass, hear her breathing, everywhere and nowhere, exactly.