![](https://static.wixstatic.com/media/56019e_5fbdb679b88f45af8a61da0230125202~mv2.png/v1/fill/w_980,h_980,al_c,q_90,usm_0.66_1.00_0.01,enc_auto/56019e_5fbdb679b88f45af8a61da0230125202~mv2.png)
It’s the morning after—she and I cry
on the couch, cuddled, sobbing silently,
save for shuddered breaths and hitching sniffles.
Your little ghost is in every corner
of every room of the house. Your spirit
now occupies all the negative space:
The green cushion by the fireplace;
the empty bowl by the back door;
the lack of weight on my right thigh;
The cold spot this morning in bed;
the circle inside a vacant
collar resting on a pine box.
White hairs stick to every piece of dark
fabric like pollen. I wish I could plant
a few and grow you again and again.
Sympathy flora wilts away, but you
are forever His Mama’s Good Baby—
the sweet ectoplasm falling from her eyes.
Letting you go is the first bitter taste
of loss for my boys, but leaving you in
love was the right lesson for them to learn.
You are the standard every future dog
will fail to meet and a jab of thought that
makes me misty-eyed every now and then.
Goodbye, Huck. You were a good boy.
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