The Staying Kind

Margaret placed the orange **vitamin** tablet on her tongue each morning with the same grim determination she applied to everything now. Another day upright. Another day without him. The routine kept her anchored, though she sometimes wondered if she was taking them to prolong life or merely postpone the inevitable.

She found the old **baseball** glove in the garage while packing away Nathan's things. The leather was cracked and stiff, the laces brittle with age. He'd kept it on a shelf for thirty years, telling anyone who'd listen about his junior varsity glory days. Margaret had never understood his attachment to a piece of sports equipment he hadn't worn since high school. Now, pressing her face into the pocket, she could smell him — leather and liniment and the peculiar warmth of his hands.

Buster, their elderly golden retriever, appeared at the garage door, nails clicking on concrete. He'd been waiting by the front window since Nathan died three weeks ago, convinced his master would return. The **dog** was what broke her every time — how could something so loyal be forced to understand abandonment?

"He's not coming back, buddy," she whispered, and the dog tilted his head, considering this betrayal with amber eyes full of terrible faith. Buster settled beside her, resting his chin on her knee as if to say: I'll wait for both of you.

Margaret realized then that grief wasn't a series of stages to complete but a staying kind. Like vitamins. Like dogs. Like old baseball gloves worn soft by decades of waiting for balls that might never come again. She scratched behind Buster's ears and decided to stay too, at least for today.