What We Bear

The alarm blared at 5:30 AM. Sarah rolled over and saw David's side of the bed, still made up with military precision, even though he'd been gone three months. She'd taken up running again—something she hadn't done since before the marriage. The rhythm of her sneakers on pavement drowned out the silence of the house.

Barnaby, their golden retriever, waited by the door, his tail thumping against the baseboard. He'd stopped looking for David's car in the driveway weeks ago, but Sarah still caught him staring at the empty armchair sometimes. She clipped on his leash, grabbed the plastic bag she'd never remember to use, and stepped into the gray dawn.

The route took them past the community garden where David had insisted on growing spinach. "It's iron-rich," he'd said, kneeling in dirt with his dress shirtsleeves rolled up, the most competent man she'd ever known. Now the garden plot was overgrown with weeds, his spinach patch choked out by dandelions and neglect. Sarah jogged faster, Barnaby loping beside her, his golden fur catching the first light.

The trail wound into the woods behind their subdivision. That's where she saw it—a black bear, maybe fifty yards away, foraging near the creek. Sarah stopped. Barnaby growled, a low rumble in his chest.

The bear lifted its head, regarded them with mild curiosity, then returned to its meal. Sarah held her breath, waiting for the surge of fear, but all she felt was a strange calm. This animal just wanted breakfast, just wanted to keep moving through its life, same as her. The divorce papers had come yesterday. David wanted to sell the house.

She couldn't bear it—not yet. Not the spinach patch, not the empty side of the bed, not Barnaby waiting by the door like David might still walk through it.

Sarah turned back toward home, walking now. The bear watched them go, indifferently. Some things endured without you, whether you were ready or not. She'd have to learn how to do the same.