But sometimes, when the loneliness starts to creep back, I put a heavy book on my lap, or a bag of potatoes at my feet. I feel the pressure, the solid truth of something real pressing against me. And I remember the BBW dog, who taught me that the heaviest burdens are sometimes the ones that save you.
It was the summer when the rains came late and the air hung thick as old honey. That’s when I first saw the dog—or rather, felt him first. bbw dog
He wasn’t my dog. He was a traveler, a big brown visitor who had stayed just long enough to remind me that weight can be a gift—that being anchored, even crushed a little, can keep you from blowing away. But sometimes, when the loneliness starts to creep
He ate my leftover stew in three gulps. He drank an entire bowl of rainwater from the porch. Then he curled into a donut so tight and so large that he took up half the living room, and he slept without a single twitch. That night, I slept too—for the first time in months without the ghost of panic scratching at my ribs. It was the summer when the rains came
I opened the door.