flash lit prompt response: “asking for a friend”

When I lay in my bed at night, and our home is quiet, I swear that I can still hear you. Your soft snores that mean you are really and truly asleep, that mean I can finally sleep too. A rustle of the sheets and a creak from the old wood of the bed frame that means you’ve rotated onto your right side, your most comfortable side.

You’ll probably stay there, peaceful and content, until dad’s 4am alarm wakes you up. I’ll crack an eye as you wander sleepily to the small bathroom in our apartment, making sure you get there and back safely. You’ll crawl back into bed and stretch out onto dad’s side. It’s warm, and you’ll lean closer to his pillow because it smells like him. My little sister will jump from her bed and nudge you until you relent and let her under the covers, where she’ll lean her warmth into your belly.

We’ll all fall back asleep until we hear the soft chime of your alarm. You usually just need a soft coaxing to get out of bed. Sometimes I have to outright beg you. But you’ll get up eventually and we’ll walk to the park, blanketed by the soft morning air and the sweet chirp of the neighborhood birds. You’ll say a cheery hello to the ducks that have taken up residence in the front yard a few houses down; seeing them is your favorite part of spring.

You’ll make yourself a cup of coffee when we get back home, and I’ll find comfort in the familiar sounds of clinging glass and chirps from the microwave. You’ll play mindlessly with my hair as we sit on the couch, your nose in a book, and you’ll stay there a little too long, savoring the time that you have with us before you leave for work.

Actually… we won’t do any of that anymore.

How does a dog survive the death of their human? Asking for a friend.