Dog

The Dog had been lying quietly on the floor for some time when He returned home. She woke with a start and clambered ungracefully to her feet, sending tumbleweeds of dust scattering across the weathered hardwoods. Her nails, longer than they should have been but not quite meeting the criteria for 'neglect', tap-tapped on the floor as she stretched like a yogi, first front legs then rear, and walked the few steps to the front door. His keys jangled and fumbled in the lock, he would be inside with her soon. She bent her legs as if to sit, but squatted instead, kept the weight in her paws so she could easily jump up to greet him when he crossed the threshold. Her tail beats a brisk staccato on the hallway floor.

The door swings inward with a creak, striking her sharply in the chest. The Dog leaps back, a bit surprised by the pain, but her tail doesn't stop wagging. His voice bursts forth, first her name loud and frustrated, then trailing off into other words she doesn't recognize and finally her name again, soft and apologetic this time. His hand thumps her ribcage, a dull hollow sound. She wriggles with pleasure.

Then the thunking of the bag he takes with him when he left the house each day, his body leaning over to drop it gently at the foot of the curving staircase, the weight of all he carried collapsing to the floor. The sound of his voice again, calling to Her, loud enough to close the distance from the door to the kitchen where She's making the clinking sounds that usually mean cooking and food and dinner. No food smells now, just a dry musty newspaper smell, and more clattering. She answers him, faintly, her voice sounding strained, as if she's trying to swallow something dense and unyielding. He presses his hand against his forehead, mashes his fingers into his eye sockets. The Dog watches, thumps her tail hopefully against the floor. He heaves a great breath, his chest expanding till the buttons threaten to pop from his shirt. His hands fall back to his sides, and he begins walking towards the kitchen, the sound of the old hardwoods creaking as he goes. The Dog gets up and follows him.

carry me ohio

One of those songs I want to wrap around me like a blanket, stand alone on a mountain in the cold with eyes closed, let myself feel warmed by it.
I don't want to know the lyrics, because they couldn't possibly make it better, might make it worse, might do something to take away from Mark Kozelek's eerie haunting voice.
If I could write the way he sings, with that soul-piercing, achingly beautiful quality, than I would never need more than that. If I could just unload emotions so poignantly, I would feel always cleansed.
For some reason, it makes me think of dried out corn husks, the quietly broken-down reeds of autumn stacked in fields. The soybeans, dried and brown but soft with fuzz, hanging dully off the plants. Plodding onward, hair scattering around my head. Cold and dry and alone, and I'll always be alone, and I'll never know how to let anyone relieve me of being alone.

Have I yet? Have I figured out how not to push people away, how to stop forcing myself to be alone? Sometimes I catch myself still living in my own log cabin, peering out at other people through the windows I constructed, finding reasons that we can't relate.