The quiet is heavy now

 The quiet is heavy now.

Your bowl sits untouched. Your collar rests where I left it. Your favorite toy lies still on the floor. Each one whispers your name, reminders of a love that will never fade. 

Though your paws no longer echo through this house, your presence lingers in every corner. I catch myself looking for you—by the door, on the couch, at my side during our evening walks. The emptiness hurts, but in that ache, there’s proof of how deeply you were loved.

Memories rush in like gentle waves. The way your eyes lit up when I came home. The sound of your tail thumping against the floor. The small, everyday moments that became the fabric of our life together.

I hold onto those moments now. They’re what keep me going, what remind me that love never truly leaves—it just changes form.

I can’t see you anymore, but I carry you with me everywhere. In my heart, in my steps, in the quiet prayers I send up when I miss you most.

And one day, I believe with all I have, we’ll meet again—where tails never stop wagging and love never says goodbye. Until then, you’re with me, always.