Lost Souls

A dog, outside a shop, cries. Lead wrapped around the railings, his eyes follow each and every pair of feet, widening with expectation, hope.1

Little more than a pup, he has only just learned to love, and not yet, to have faith. They have left him. They cannot have meant to, they didn’t not seem angry, but the fact remains that he remains, alone, while they do not. So he weeps his loss to them, begging them. 'Return, remember me,' and simply, plaintively 'Love me'. More than that, he begs the passing sets of feet, passing him by, to turn, and to suddenly, miraculously, be them.2

She answers his call, though they are not, on the surface of things, for her. But she hears the need in his voice and from out of the shop, a sales assistant responds in a frequency too high for human ears, the answering of one lonely, doubting call with another.3

She is there, kneeling on the pavement, cautiously at first, afraid that disappointment at her refusal to transform into those he loves may make him snap. He pushes towards her, hungry for affection. His front legs mount her shoulders in a straight armed embrace and his head rests against her chest as he whines, softer now, comforted, but not entirely consoled.4

How can you know, She thinks, that they will be back? That once they have dealt with the issue of paint for their living rooms walls, they will come to find you, unconcerned, and oblivious to your grief and you fear, because they never doubted that they would be back, never thought that this cataclysm in your life was more that a ripple on the surface of theirs, not even the briefest interruption of your lives together.5

It is, she knows, despite all promises, easier to leave, than to be left, for whatever reasons or whatever length of time. So much easier to struggle towards something than to wait, with only the promise that the struggle will be completed, that reunion will occur.6

The dog restrained, struggles further towards her, as if the closer he is, the less alone he will be. She reciprocates, trying to draw from the warmth of the dog a strength she does not have, to pass back to him, and to keep a little for herself.7

“They will come for you” she tells him. She croons it again and again, willing him to understand the truth in her voice which she herself never could, let alone him.8

“They will come for us” there is a pause in which she strokes his still babyish fur, then, in a soft, desperate whine, 9

“He will come for me.”10