I’ve got my head low. My shoulders hunched over like the cliffs of Moher. I slide in and out of people’s vision quickly, like some kind of hyper-dream. I can’t take a chance of having a conversation about things like the weather, the madness of the media or God forbid – Christmas. So I move with precision in and out of the domestic traffic of seasonal people, deliberate and smooth. Almost like an animal you might say. The rain comes and I’m grateful as I let it fall on my pale skin with gratitude. It’s a good substitute for tears. And the small gray one is out playing with another gray one, bigger, younger. It’s appropriate I tell myself – this coming and going of animals. Sure, I can’t stop it. Yet the heart might tell me different. It needs time to repair but I’m assured it can repair itself well while watching these two at play, chasing what the white one used to, as his memory trails in me like a night of a million stars. Yet I know this to be perfection at work, no matter what the world might say, for we have created our own world where the only crime would be not letting more in for the movement of grief and the sustenance of memories, corrugated once more with the precision of sorrow. For now, we are closed to the world, encapsulated with the secrets of animals within ourselves. Yet I wonder why no cards appeared but for one. And me, the woman who loves them, and others who have assumed a text would suffice. And grace it falls ever so silently, like long-awaited snow, in places where people cannot reach.