My husband, Frank, had been gone for a year and a half.
Even after eighteen months, there were mornings when I woke expecting to hear him moving around the kitchen.
Then the silence reminded me.
That afternoon, I took flowers to the cemetery.
My fourteen-year-old Chihuahua, Benny, came with me.
Benny is blind, mostly toothless, and walks with the slow, determined dignity of an elderly gentleman who refuses to acknowledge his age.
I placed the flowers beside Frank’s headstone while Benny stood pressed against my shoe.
“Leave those alone,” I warned.
He immediately leaned toward them.
I sighed.
“Frank would’ve loved you.”
Benny’s tail tapped softly against my ankle.
“He would’ve fed you bacon when I wasn’t looking. Then when the vet complained about your weight, he would’ve blamed me.”
Benny wagged harder.
I smiled.
Eight months earlier, I had gone to a shelter intending only to look.
