They Tell Me the Stents Are Holding
Hope is tomorrow’s veneer
Lucy came to me in a dream last night.
I was out in the park, not far from home. It was nearly dusk and the last remnants of sunlight hung low over the distant mountains. The grackles were chirping their usual shrill tones high above me in the trees as I lowered the brim of my hat to block the sunlight, even though its waning warmth felt good on this old man’s whiskered face.
In the athletic fields nearby I heard children’s laughter, the commands of soccer coaches and their sharp whistles, and parents shouting lively encouragements.
Then, behind me, I heard it.
The panting, the rattle of dog tags against a collar, and the sounds of paws bounding across the hard sand of the park’s volleyball courts. I spun around on the wooden bench, and there she was. Her tongue flapped in the wind like some lunatic. Her eyes fastened on mine as she raced closer, so very close, and I stood slightly bent, my arms outstretched, with the words coming effortlessly and lovingly, “Come here, girl!”
I bent lower, anticipating her leap into my arms. Anxious to hold her, to feel her licking my face, with the unconditional love that some dogs gift us.
