What We Keep

The chemotherapy took Elena's hair first, then her appetite, then finally her last summer. Now it was November, and Marcus stood in their kitchen making dinner for one. He chopped spinach with mechanical precision, the knife's rhythm against the cutting board the only sound in the apartment. Elena had loved spinach — said it made her feel like she was doing something right for her body, even when everything else was going wrong.

A wet nose pressed against his calf. Barnaby, Elena's retriever, had been waiting by his bowl since Marcus walked in the door. The dog had stopped looking for her by the door three weeks ago, but still slept on her pillow.

"You too, buddy," Marcus said, his voice cracking. He slid the spinach into the pan, watched it wilt into nothingness.

He should donate Barnaby. Everyone told him so. A high-powered attorney with a dog who needed more attention than Marcus could give was a recipe for resentment. But every time he looked at those soulful eyes, saw the way the dog's gray-flecked muzzle rested on his paws, Marcus remembered how Elena had found him as a stray — how she'd brought home this matted, terrified creature and spent three months nursing him back to health, saying everyone deserved a second chance.

Marcus scraped the spinach into the trash can.

His phone buzzed on the counter. A reminder for his first date since the funeral. Sarah from accounting. Nice enough, but she asked questions that required answers he didn't have anymore.

Barnaby whined softly, nudging Marcus's hand with his wet nose.

"Yeah," Marcus said, sinking to the kitchen floor. The dog curled against him, heavy and warm and alive. "Me too."

He found a gray hair on his sleeve — one of hers, caught in the fabric months ago. He should throw it away. Wash the shirt. Move forward. Instead, he rolled the tiny strand between his fingers, feeling the phantom weight of everything he'd lost.

Some things you let go of. Some things you keep.