An Empty Bed

My mom’s dog, Cinnamon, usually slept alongside her every night, unless I was visiting, and then she was with my dog and me. The dogs are sisters so they kind of like each other. My brother told me after I left last week, Cinnamon started the night out with him until about midnight, when she got up, padded over to mom’s door, wanting to “go in with mom now.” He had to get up, open the door, and show her the empty bed. “She’s not here, Cinnamon.”

In her simple-minded and lovely way, Cinnamon embodies what I am experiencing too. “I’ll have to tell mom about this the next time we talk… Oh, that’s right, I can’t now…” I mentally pad over to her door to say good morning, but she is no longer there. The bed lies empty. I pick up my phone to call her about something and then remember she won’t answer. Her phone rings to emptiness.