Giving up my dog

Turning again in the slow field, the slow field of meaning, of becoming, of words. Language like a sudden splash of raindrops in the night, powerful thunder, so that i thought of my dog--no longer with me--who is afraid of thunder, and i wished he were with me so i could comfort him and thereby comfort myself, so we could share in comfort and being together, so i could feel his dependence on me, the way when it thunders he always tried to get his body as close to mine as possible, first pushing all of himself directly under my chair and then trying to climb into my lap, though he's way too big to be a lap dog.

In the morning light i miss him still and feel the sting of betrayal of having given him up, though he's in a great home with friends, feel the loss like an acre opening inside, feel the conflict of wanting him and not wanting him, as i look at my newly painted kitchen floor no longer pocked all over by his nails, a beautiful glassy field of green, also unmarred by dog hair, and i like it that way, i want it that way, but we can never have all that we want--the dog and the perfect floor, the companionship without having to be home twice a day to walk and feed him, his smiling face without his hyperactive leaping up each time i shift in my chair, my need without his.

So it is that the day begins with the imperfect huddled around me like the ghosts of children--silent, mournful, wanting something. I feel my empty hands, the way i cannot answer every need, not even in my own life, where they clash against each other like titans in some ancient, unresolvable war, doomed to play it out in the heavens one more time.

Needing to write, needing to make a living, needing companionship, needing to remember myself in solitude, needing to be outdoors but finding comfort indoors, a hundred aches and yearnings, indecisions, morse code messages, crossing wires.

I carry the weight of them like an old engine i have removed from the truck of my life, inner workings exposed to light, covered in grease and grit. Something's not working here, but can i fix it? I've got an assortment of tools and some know-how, but sometimes the answer is not to drive the truck at all but just to sit on the grass by the messy engine, the disemboweled truck, and think of nothing, or not much, as the day goes on humming around you and other people drive to other places.