I placed Dad’s notebook on the side table.
Beside it, I placed the photo of him and Copper.
Then I sat in the recliner.
Just once.
It creaked under me.
The cushion sank into Dad’s shape.
For a moment, I felt like I was sitting inside his absence.
I looked toward the window where Copper used to wait.
The glass reflected the room back at me.
A middle-aged man in his father’s chair.
Tired eyes.
Unshaven face.
Holding a grief that had nowhere useful to go.
I thought about all the times I had said, “I’ll call tomorrow.”
I thought about all the people sitting in houses across the country, saying they were fine.
I thought about old dogs at apartment doors.
Cats in windows.
Birds in cages.
Neighbors behind curtains.
Fathers in recliners.
Mothers at kitchen tables.
People who do not need saving in a dramatic way.
Just noticing.
Just someone to say, “I’m coming by.”
Just someone to sit a while.
I touched the arm of Dad’s chair.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
Not loudly.
Not for performance.
Just into the room.
Then I added, “I’m learning.”
Outside, the porch was quiet.
Copper’s stone sat in the last blue light of evening.
The blanket Rachel had left on the porch chair moved slightly in the breeze.
For half a second, my heart did what hearts do.
It hoped for the impossible.
An orange tail.
A torn ear.
A tiny meow.
Nothing came.
But the ache that followed was not empty.
It was full of everything that had been there.
