Hedda

 
In our house, there is my wife and my wife's
husband, and in the center, there is Hedda.
Or was. She's a dog. A black and white dog.
A Rat Terrier. But she's gone now. Broke our
hearts, she did. Yesterday, and for always.
Today I burned her stuffed bed on which
she slept on next to ours, and the hairy
blanket we kept in the backseat of the car.
And threw away her water and food bowls.
Anything that will remind us of her, though
of course, that will be impossible. There
will be her ball we'll find, come summer,
at the wood's edge, the myriad scratches
on the front door made when she wanted
to go outside to do her business. There
will be nights we imagine her soft snores
coming from below, the many pictures we
can't ignore and dreams we can't control.
But eventually, they say, ever so slowly,
they say, we will get over her departure.
Yes, maybe, but should we get to heaven,
we hope to find her there, her stumpy tail
wagging and none the worse for wear.

J. D. Heskin

If you have any comments on this  poem, J. D. Heskin would be pleased to hear from you.