It's been months now that he's been gone.
The first time it happened, it stopped me in my tracks. I cried of course.
The first time I reached into a coat pocket and found a plastic bag (for the unexpected poop) and tiny milk bones. I’d never realized how many bags and bones that I had carried around in so many pockets.
For some reason I can’t bring myself to throw them away. My odd way of hoping that maybe one day he’ll come back and I’ll need them again, though of course I know it will never be.
Yet, old habits die hard.
Maybe one day when I am gone and someone cleans out my coat pockets, they will finally throw away bags and old bones.
