I am seventy-eight.
I don’t move fast, but sorrow moves faster.
The host blinked when I asked for a corner table with room for a dog to lie down.
The carpet looked soft enough to remember better days.
“Sir, we have rules,” the manager said, careful and polite.
“Only service animals.”
“He is,” I said, and my voice surprised me with how steady it sounded.
“He got me through nights I didn’t think I’d finish.”
I didn’t mention the appointment on the kitchen calendar at home.
A small, quiet square with a time written in careful pen.
We sat.
Ranger lay down with a sigh that felt like an old song.
Across the room, silver shivered against porcelain.
A couple lowered their voices without meaning to.
I lifted the menu as if I could shield him with paper.
My hands shook anyway.
