missing my picker-upper Boston

Missing someone involves relearning basic lessons — like gravity. For more than the last dozen years, I never had to worry about anything spilled on my kitchen floor. I had my own magic word — not “Abracadabra,” though maybe that might have worked. Mine was “Boston,” beckoning my always-hungry mutt to clean up whatever I had dropped. Over the years, he learned to discern the sound of a pot being scraped, because he was employed often enough to do the final lick-clean before the dishwasher to anticipate his role.

Even just the sound of objects hitting the floor was often enough of a signal for Boston to come check whether his services might be needed. I learned tonight how I had come to rely on what I imagined was his intuition. I had to suppress an almost involuntary call of his name, remembering that his name alone would not bring him back from the Beyond. Or maybe it could. I didn’t try, so I guess I don’t know.

I miss you, Boston. My aging knees thank you for the decade of reprieve you gave them.