The short sentence stabs: my dog died.
When will I wake up without requiring the reminder, remembering I don’t need to check his water bowl or take him for walkies? How many times will the sharp syllables slice before I am scabbed and scarred enough not to be caught crying at my desk? When will I come home, immune to the silence, impervious to the missing jangle of tags and the absence of toenails on tiles? How often must I wield these three words before their edges dull?
My dog died.
The sentence is still a dagger.