I told your picture everything that happened today

 I told your picture everything that happened today.

I came home, set my keys down, and started talking before I even took off my shoes. I told you about the little things first… the kind of things I used to tell you while you followed me from room to room.
What made me tired.
What made me laugh.
What I wished had gone differently.
Then I looked at your face in that frame, and the words changed.
I told you how much I missed you today.
Your picture sits beside your collar and the small candle I light when the house feels too quiet. I keep the glass clean. I straighten the frame when it shifts. I touch the corner of it sometimes, as if being careful with your picture is still one way of being careful with you.
I know it cannot answer me.
I know it cannot lift its head when I say your name or look at me with those eyes that always seemed to understand more than I said.
But I talk anyway.
You were the one I came home to.
You listened without interrupting. You never made me explain why something hurt. You would simply stay near me, warm and steady, until the weight of the day felt easier to carry.
Now I sit in front of your picture and try to find that same comfort.
Sometimes I tell you the good things because I still want to share them with you. Sometimes I tell you the hard things because part of me still believes you are my safest place.
And sometimes I say nothing at all.
I just sit there and look at the face I knew better than my own.
There are moments when the photograph feels like a gift. It reminds me of your gentle expression, the shape of your ears, and the way you looked when you were completely at home with me.
Then there are moments when it hurts because I cannot reach through the glass.
I cannot feel your fur.
I cannot hear you move closer.
I cannot watch your eyes follow me when I stand up to leave the room.
So I tell your picture everything, because love does not know what else to do with all these words.
It still wants to include you.
It still thinks of you when something happens.
It still saves parts of the day to bring home.
Maybe somewhere beyond this quiet room, you still hear me. Maybe love carries my voice farther than I understand.
I hope you know that you are still part of my life, even though I have to hold you differently now.
Tomorrow, I will probably sit here again and tell you what happened.
And I will keep talking, my baby… until the day I no longer need a photograph to see your face.