At Least They're Committed

The morning light that rolls through the sliding glass door and over my Shadow is deceptive. The wind chill is negative for the third day in a row. My Shadow is in a ball, nose to tail, brown eyes closed, sleek cocoa and ebony coat gleaming in the sunshine. Raul’s sleeping with DS; Mina’s in my room.

When I was a little girl, undersized and pixie-cut, I fantasized about having dogs that could come indoors; real pets, unlike the hunting beagles my dad had in a kennel. Powerful dogs that would sit on either side of me as if guarding my throne. Sometimes as the summer sun is setting and I’m sitting on the back patio sipping red wine, Shadow comes and sits on my right and Raul on my left and I look back at that homely, bitterly shy little girl and I call back in time, “Hey! Look what we got!” and I wonder if I once heard myself or if I always knew.

I scan the living room, two-thirds decorated with Christmas trees, lights, angels, the Grinch and the possessed singing Christmas turkey that Carol got me. It’s beautiful. I love my home, its character and what it symbolizes to this family. I’ve worked hard for it and it’s a larger house than I ever dreamed of having and I would never want for anything more.

Still, I’m in a holding pattern, a root-bound mignonette in an unyielding ceramic pot. I would like to keep going, keep growing, keep reaching out to who and what I want to and should be. I’ve come so far, but it’s not enough. It’s not supposed to be. I have such a long way to go to be vital and engaged again and what makes it more difficult is that I see it, I reach for it, I cry out to it and it stops as if waiting for me. My today always pulls me back. My future turns away.

Shadow stretches, secure and content in the sunshine.