Our little brown dog,
in his final years,
whimpers for help
to get onto the couch.

My wife picks him up
with a mother’s compassion,
rubs his tired bones
and flea bitten ears.

And I wonder
if her hands feel a loss
as she holds him
or if time is a chore

she endures
like hours at the sink
drying dishes with a towel,
placing each one in the cabinet.

Every cup a treasure,
a chipped plate
a life
she remembers.