I still say your name sometimes
when I walk into the house,
out of habit
and out of hope
that maybe you’ll come running
the way you always did.

Your bowl isn’t by the door anymore,
and your toys are tucked away in a drawer,
but somehow
your presence
still lingers in the quiet corners
of this home.

I remember the way
you waited by the window,
as if the whole world
was simply a place
that existed between
my leaving
and my coming back.

You never asked for much—
just a walk,
a soft place to rest,
a gentle hand on your head,
and the simple promise
that I would be there.

But what you gave me
was so much more.

You filled ordinary days
with excitement,
turned lonely evenings
into companionship,
and somehow knew
when my heart was heavy
without me saying a word.

Losing you
didn’t feel like losing a pet.

It felt like losing
a quiet friend
who loved without conditions
and stayed beside me
through moments
no one else ever saw.

So now I honor you
in small ways.

In the long walks
I still take.

In the way I pause
when I see another dog
running freely in the park.

In the gratitude
I feel
for the years
we shared.

Because love like yours
doesn’t simply disappear.

It becomes
a gentle memory
that walks beside me
every day
I keep moving forward.