Lessons
She is pointedly staring at the empty water bowl. I fill it. Joints jolting, she thumps down to drink. She can’t bend as low as she once could, so her tongue lengthens to meet the surface. She turns and turns and turns and settles, her buff fur against my mouth, her eyes, inward. She rises and turns and turns and settles again. She smells like spices, like cinnamon, like turmeric. With her bulging elbows, she cannot get comfortable. She has not lost her softness with age, only her lifting grace. Now her grace is in her effort, the timid movements she makes, the way her pain opens me to...
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