My writing companion

 Early in the morning, when the first rays of light struggle to rise above the trees in the backyard, I remember our exchanges in front of the computer and a big wave of sadness washes over me.
A habit of many years, I send my hand, to pet her soft white fur, then I remember that she is no longer here and my hand freezes in mid-air.
She was my writing companion; I can’t imagine writing without her by my side.
I smile when I remember our mornings’ routine.
Me, serious and driven, pouring my ‘oh, so important thoughts’ onto the computer She, just as motivated, walks back and forth as she steps gently on the keyboard and sends herds of letters scrambling on the screen mingling with my orderly sentences.
I used to get mad.
Then I tried to work around her, realizing as I was doing it how pathetic this might look to any bystander. Attempting to get to the keys by sending my hand under her belly, or look at the screen above her ears, and just as I found a somewhat workable position, and type few lines, she would move and graciously send a paw, or a tail, and brush it all away. In the end, I would give up. I’d laugh and pet her on the head "you are right, I am taking myself way too seriously."
I would sweep the clamps of hair from my shirt, phoo away some more fine hair stuck to my face, and lean back.
She would stretch slowly, yawn, get up and walk away to curl in the sunny spot on the couch.
Distracted and restless, I stand up.  Outside the backyard is covered with dry brown leaves. I can see the small heap of stones marking her grave under the old oak tree.
I know they are not meant to be with us forever, but this does not take away from her absence by my side.


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