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.