One of our three dogs followed me all the way down the driveway. She needn’t have. No less loyal but not given to fond farewells, one stayed at the house. The other settled himself near the bougainvillea, the driveway spooling out to his horizon. As I reached the gate, I turned to see the eldest making her ponderous way towards me, tottering like a drunkard on her arthritic hip. I might have driven off without another glance, but on she came. At her age, at 98, I hope to have the same attitude. I hope I can do something difficult without making any kind of a big deal out of it.
Her spirit kindles, still;
each eye an ember
sufficient to sustain the body.