Turned Leaves

The dog didn't bark like he usually does, when I put my key in the door, he just paced anxiously in the hallway when I came in. Something was not right.

She sat at the kitchen table, weeping uncontrollably. My oldest friend just died, she said between sobs, and I could see the disbelief in her eyes as she did. The bottle of gin stood open next to her, no glass, and she had to keep recharging her phone to endure the traffic that didn't abate for days.

The pain in my jaw didn't hurt so much then, the pain of my existential angst. The shadows that hover so closely when I try to sleep went quietly to wait in the corner. I ask him about everything. Who will I turn to now? He was my family. Everything gets painted in different colors, when the loss is so tangible. She remembered to walk the dog, but our steps were hesitant, trembling.

Days have passed slowly on Morton Street. Beautiful, cool summer days come and gone. The sun will always rise. We just have to be there to see it.