Awakened

My dog rattles his collar - an orange and green band on his furry little neck that jingles with a flat silver bone
and a rabies tag shaped like Illinois.

I glance at the clock. A red, digital glow beaming with three numbers.
1:11 am.

Crap.

I roll back the layer of blankets and slide out of bed-
my dog following closely like a four-legged shadow.
We walk together to the back door and I undo the chain lock to let him out.

There's a moon. Fuzzy and filtered in the cloudy winter sky-
but there's just enough glow to see my dog peeing in the flower bed-
A bed of dead geraniums and sleeping hostas
and solar lights that haven't come on in days.

Just a few months ago this spot was thick with green-
tossed with colored petals of petunias-
and flickering with the magic of fireflies...

I step out onto the deck-
the handrail still pierced with crooked staples that once held
thin crepe paper streamers on Halloween night.

I can almost smell the bonfire.

I wrap my arms tightly around myself- ignore my slipper-less feet-
breathe deeply the scent of damp winter grass,
distant rain,
and the neighbor's horses- stabled against the cold.

My dog takes his time.
Does a lengthy ritual of hiking his leg over every possible object.
I beg him to hurry- Come on-Let's go in- It's freezing out here.

He's ready to come in.
I lock the door behind us.
We walk back to the dark bedroom like a odd pair of zombies.
The clock informs me it's 1:18.

I hog the blankets-
pull them tightly around my neck and trap them under my feet.
I exaggerate a teeth-chattering chill-
then roll toward my husband to steal his warmth.

He is still asleep,
but he unconsciously puts his arm around me-
then continues snoring with a happy hum of dreams.

I love you, I say, kissing his forehead.
But he doesn't hear me.

It's 1:25 am.

And I just made a memory.