Zeb

There's something about these words that I want to be perfect.
I want to describe the way he knew my soul.
I want you to see me, 15 years old, laying in my bunk bed in a travel trailer, him next to me, my hand making even strokes across his side until he fell asleep.
I want you to watch that same hand, now 28 years old, caressing, massaging the same side. Except this time I was telling him, "It's okay. You can go if you need to."

And he did.

The same noble way he insisted on walking ahead of me always and the way he looked at me when I helped him stand up when he was stiff - thankful, but stoic - is the same way he left. He tried to stand up when I stopped petting him and went into the house. And then, when I came back, moments later, he was gone.

He left exactly how, selfishly, I wanted him to. I wanted him home, with me, peaceful. I wanted it to end how it all started 13 years ago.

I sat with him for a long time - same hand, same side.

There is so much about him to say, so much to talk about, so many memories, so many things I'll say later, but for right now, I miss him.

And the tears just keep falling.