The Drop Off
I open the front door and almost step into it.
On the concrete slab, we now have
a big, brown box, high as my waist.
How could I have missed the delivery?
The screen door slams behind me. I halt, puzzled
by the mystery package.
I have always known in advance.
I have heard footfalls fade down the walkway, at least.
How many times have I listened to a retreat?
I've watched the drivers hop up into the cabs of their trucks.
I've studied their vehicles as they pulled away.
Then it strikes me. I have not known.
The dog knew. She always got up.
She danced. She barked.
She bounded at the door.
She threw herself against me for reassurance.
"Quiet! Quiet, down!"
I would hold her, pat her.
She would wag, sometimes lick me.
She would pant or whine.
My dog always over-reacted
and I had to spend a moment
in a hug with her, making sure she was calm.
Then we would fall into our customary positions.
as I strode to the door
with her by my side, her tail wagging
as if she were looking forward to meeting our guest.
She was usually disappointed.
We heard those retreating steps
or the slam of the truck door
as our potential guest left us.
The routine irritated me every time,
which is why it is such a surprise
to feel the sigh well up in my chest,
notice the heat in my face, my throat,
and to gasp a shivery breath.
I blink at the drop-off through water in my eyes.
Here I am, close to crying
on my front doorstoop
because I'm missing the most annoying love
of all the loves.
-- Eric Gallagher
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