Weeks before he died it appeared, lying beneath the monitor’s blinking eye, tangled amidst the tubes and pumps, panting to the respirator’s desperate refrain.
Every night when she left the ICU, it followed her. Every day on the way back she tried to lose it, but it had their scent.
When she tried calling it closer, it stayed just far enough away she could not tell if it was the he or she of this pain.
For a long time it would bare its teeth when she moved too close. But it would not leave.
“Don’t feed it or it will stay,” some said. And she would think of calling the pound but then she would count its ribs, would see the look of alone in its eyes.
Since he died it hangs around the yard until she throws it the bones of her nightmares. Sometimes now she invites it into the house to lie by the fire to dream.
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