It’s November. Blue sky. Or not. I don’t know. Time hums underwater as I sit at my desk. A sudden tug in my belly and I’m up, running, the walls on either side of the hall punctuated with holes from fists and feet. I see him dart from his room and I keep moving, perpendicular to him as he leaps toward the banister. As if timed or choreographed, I grab his torso, pull him with me to the ground. I got you, honey, I whisper to his warm and sweaty temple. I got you. That’s how it felt all Fall.
Kyra Anderson is a writer and artist who lives in Western Massachusetts where her every move is carefully monitored by her small, elderly dog.