There’s a door in this house

 There’s a door in this house

that feels different now.

It used to be the place where everything began—
the thud of your paws,
the whirl of your excitement,
the way you’d greet me
as if I’d returned from a lifetime away
even when it was only five minutes.

You ran to that door
with a heart full of devotion
and a joy so pure
it could melt the hardest days.

Now the door stands still.
And the quiet that lingers there
is the kind that wraps around the ribs
and doesn’t let go.

I walk past it
and for a split second,
my heart still leaps—
waiting for the sound of you.
The paws.
The breath.
The happiness that made this house feel alive.

But grief is strange.
It reminds me of what’s missing,
yet it also pulls forward the memories
with a tenderness that almost feels like touch.

Because when I close my eyes,
I can still see you—
running toward me,
ears flying,
eyes full of love that asked for nothing
except my presence.

And maybe that’s what stays…
even when the door is silent.

Not the emptiness,
but the love that once rushed toward me
as if your whole world depended on it.

The door you won’t run to anymore
still opens something inside me—
a space where you live,
soft and eternal,
in the warm shadow of every moment
we shared.

You’re not at the door,
but you are here.
Always.
In every breath
that still remembers what love felt like
when it ran toward me
on four perfect paws.