Your Tiny Cardboard World Nalette Rondon
I found you in a box. You were small, crying, and alone, for your brothers and sisters had disappeared from your tiny, cardboard world. I took you, box and all. You cried the whole way home. You just wanted to sit in my lap. You just wanted to know you weren't alone. I just wanted to know you'd be getting home safe. I kept asking myself, "what will Dad think?" It was hard not to love you as I watched you outgrow your box and grow into your large, clumsy paws, and as I watched your round, puppy belly grow lean and muscular. You were smart and gentle, and I never let you be alone. You watched me grow, too, little one. You watched my world shift and my emotions get the best of me. You watched me cry, and you made sure I was never alone. You made sure I always knew that you'd be waiting for me when I got home after a long, hard day. Until you weren't. I watched you curl up and suffer. I tried to make you comfortable, but you just wanted to be beside me. I tried to hold you as you slept, my hand pressed to your chest, fearing that I'd have to feel your last heartbeats, but you began to seize. You began to crumble away and I couldn't just hold you and hope. You didn't die at home, comfortably. You passed on a cold, metal table, with your head pressed to my chest and your ever-trusting eyes letting me know that everything would be alright. I held you for so long. They told me to take my time, and I did. I kept searching for your heartbeat, I clung to your warmth, panicking as it faded. I buried my face in the crook of your neck like you had done for me so many times. You were gone. Harder yet was leaving you alone on that cold table. Leaving that place empty handed and heavy hearted. But hardest of all was sitting in my car and looking over at your box that I had never bothered to take out, and that you had long outgrown. Your tiny cardboard world.