Paws on Heart-Shaped Slate

Paws on Heart-Shaped Slate

by Stephen L. Harrison

The heart-shaped stone,

cool in my hand.

Your paw prints,

a small, stubborn mark.

The slate splits.

So does the heart.

So does life.

My eyes sting,

salt drying on my skin.

Red, rubbed raw

for you.

I feel you—

not gone, not quite—

just out of reach,

past the green.

A catch in the chest,

sharp as nettles.

The house is still.

Too still.

The bowl is dry,

the leash hangs loose.

Silence sits

in every room.

Something missing

where you used to be.

And yet, in it,

something holds—

a small warmth

that doesn’t go out.

I’m grateful

for the years we had:

the muddy tracks,

the way you came to me;

the way you knew

before I spoke,

and stayed,

quietly, beside me.

Your face,

those trusting eyes—

how you watched

the morning come in.

Love doesn’t stop.

It stays, low-burning.

Makes the waiting

bearable.

For now,

these prints,

these memories

are enough.

I turn the slate,

feel the break.

The slate splits.

So does the heart.

So does life.