by Jana Lee Frazier
Calling Monty back: A meditation on a dog gone too soon.
The fallen apples smell like cider in the hot yellow autumn air, as I move back and forth along the line, hanging clothes and calling his name.
The wind whips the words right out of my mouth. The other dogs, his mother among them, look at me, wide-eyed and confused. They bolt away, the bright light bronzing their sleek sinewy backs, their ears awry, fast-moving feet making confetti out of the freshly cut grass.
I put down a sodden shirt and begin to walk. Wet leaves skim my forehead, kiss my lips, stick to my tears.