Of Spoons* and Dogs

“I’ve been waiting the whole day for this moment,” you say in a muffled voice, and turn your back to me in bed, purposefully. I cling close to you, my head leaning on your shoulder-blades, my arm scooping your waist and chest, my legs outlining the length of yours. I often burst out into inexplicable explosions of laughter spiced with silliness – this is not one of those times. My eyes are closed, but I’m not sleeping, I’m simply clinging. You’ll be gone in a minute or two, off to where I can’t follow, and I’m just squeezing the moment to the last drop. Suddenly, I think of my grandfather’s dog Džekson from about 20 years ago, and how he loved to stretch out on the warm stone steps of the house in the silence of a summer afternoon heat; how he sighed deeply and contentedly when you sat next to him for a moment and stroked him. You could tell that’s all he ever needed, in the whole wide world. I hold your body heavy with sleep and I smile. This is no different. This is the same.

*Hats down to the beautiful English expression "to spoon"...