when the dog dies, the cat will be curled by the fire. it will be a dark blue december night. there will be no sound other than his slow breaths and the metronome of the clock. he will stretch his soft body and lick his paws. he will drink from the dog’s bowl and dribble water on the kitchen floor, and he will not consider her.
when the dog dies, my mother will be dreaming of my father. in her dreams he is still alive, and we are all together. she will reach for him, and it will feel like coming home. she will laugh, and she will cry, and she will tell him never to leave her again. in the morning, she will wake to a foot of snow and an empty bed, and she will smoke a cigarette.
when the dog dies, she will drag herself to the woods. her old bones will ache from the cold, and the dark, and the weight of living. she will take the familiar path, the one she took when she was young and the world was new. she will lie down, and she will not think of what is to come. she will think of today, when she was alive, warm and beating, nestled to my chest. she will remember that feeling as her eyes close and the snow blankets her fur. she will not be cold.
Raven Minyard is a writer based in Tennessee. She received her Bachelor's degree in English and Creative Writing from Sweet Briar College, and her work has been published in Sunstroke Magazine and the Zillennial Zine. When not writing, she enjoys making highly specific playlists on Spotify. Find her on Instagram @raven.minyard
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