For the first time since Rafe’s death I can remember past his dying:
- his smell, like pine woods and rich earth and fresh-mown hay,
warm and wild and comforting; - his loping, straight-backed gait – like a cheetah,
he loved to run; - his round, trusting, wide-open eyes;
- and how he peeled back foil from
the best carrot cake ever made
to lick the cream-cheese frosting,
but not all of it – not even much of it,
but just enough to satisfy.