My husband and I had a dog named Chicken. She died a couple of days ago, 3 months shy of what would have been her 12th birthday, and 2 weeks almost to the second after I had a miscarriage. Chicken was a gift from my husband on our 2nd Christmas together back in 2008. She was with me throughout my tumultuous 20s up to my early 30s, and except for the two years we were oceans apart, was my constant companion while I navigated early adulthood, figured out my life, and searched for my voice in a foreign country. We did a lot of growing up together. She was like me in a lot of ways and one day when my heart can handle the grief of losing her a little better, I will tell the world all about her.

There was once a dog named Chicken, and the world is better because she left her paw prints all over.

I think I was born in the wrong decade.

Even now in this pandemic, one issue has remained constant: the apartment needs to stay clean and organized for my sanity. I cannot fathom why it’s so hard for him to do that. I deal with people’s mess all day long. I am carrying his weight by being in the work force full time. What is it about keeping the apartment spiffy that is so hard to do?

When this is over, I will take you with me, far away from this wretched place. We will have two children, a boy and a girl, and as many dogs as you’d like. I don’t care if we travel a lot or if we travel through books. I long for the day when I don’t have to cry every time I have to go to work. We are far from perfect and we’ve hurt each other countless times over the years. None of that matters now. I am yours, and you are mine.

My home is in your arms.

Because we can’t rewind.