It is October already. The scars of the summer earmarked. Roller skates put to upper shelves, unsent letters tucked beneath mattresses I can find no dreams upon. Leisurely reads wading way for anthologies.
A great northern winter awaits me. It was supposed to be the time of the year. Only you are no longer here.
I wish I had asked you while I still could, what made you bay at the moon or why you sat like a sage in rain or snow, albeit with eyes open. Who were you offering alms to? Was it a paean for Pluto, a hymn for humanity or a eulogy for Laika?
What was it about snow that made you pensive? What smell centres it triggered, the pristine white of Himalayan snow. My own private direwolf yet as free as the wild-lings.
A little young bear covered in snow freckles, you were. Up above the fluffy cloud, do you miss me as much as I miss you?
It would snow this year too and I’d look for silver trinkets on your fur but you wouldn’t be there. This winter, snow would burn.
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But when I’d peek from that cedar window at the misshaped orb that’s moon, it will always look like you.
There’d always be huggable humans but what I need are bear hugs. No matter how the world breaks me I will always be enough to hold you if you shall come.