It does not matter where we were going, just that the phone rang and Pat said, “I have bad news.”
It was winter. We were on our way to North Creek. “This is going to be hard,” he said.
No, I insist. I’m just a puppy romping on the edge of truth, a hungry ghost skulking in the shadows. I would have followed across glaciers for a night at your fire, but I am not ready for you to be gone.
And you look at me, shaking your head, smiling, “Aw, child.”
You open your arms, and I leave off nosing in the shrubbery to hug you one last time: those fragile bird bones, the fluttering of your heart.