When I find him again,
the world will smell like rain and old leaves
the way it did the first day he chose me.
There’ll be no thunder, no fanfare,
just the soft sound of paws through grass
and that tail beating out the rhythm of homecoming.
He won’t bark.
He won’t need to announce himself,
just that tilt of his head,
that half-smile dogs somehow invent
when they know you’re still learning how to breathe again.
He’ll look at me like he’s been keeping watch
from the far side of silence,
counting my steps through every dream.
And I’ll say his name,
once,
and it’ll open something in me
I thought was buried with him.
He’ll hop toward me,
back legs still pulling courage from memory,
the way he used to chase joy like it was prey.
I’ll drop to my knees,
and suddenly I’m crying and laughing and apologizing
for taking so damn long.
His fur will smell like the sun
and every afternoon nap we ever stole.
I’ll hold his face between my hands
and he’ll lean in like he used to,
forehead to forehead,
a simple check-in:
you made it too?
No clocks here.
No pain to explain.
Just breath, grass and the sound
of something mending quietly inside me.
He’ll spin once,
just to show me his legs work again,
and the sky will shimmer like it’s clapping for him.
Then he’ll start walking toward the light
without looking back,
except once.
Just once.
Tail wagging.
Eyes saying what words can’t hold:
See? I told you I’d find you.
And I’ll follow,
finally understanding
that love doesn’t wait on this side or that.
It just loops,
over and over,
until we catch up.
