New Warmth

I still remember you— a small girl puppy, all soft paws and quiet tail wags, barely big enough to leave prints on the floor. You only stayed for two months, but you filled the house with tiny sounds- scratches at the bowl, little yips at nothing, warm weight curled up against my hand. Then you were gone, and even your favorite corner stopped feeling like yours. Now there’s a boy puppy here. He paws at the floor the same way you did, sniffs every corner like it holds a secret, and falls asleep in the same messy, sideways curl you used to fall into after playing too hard. He doesn’t know your name. He doesn’t know your story. But sometimes when he runs— ears flopping, tail too excited, tripping over nothing at all— it looks like a memory learning how to move again. He chews on toys the way you did, tilts his head when I call him, and presses his nose into my hand like he’s checking if I still remember how to care. I know he isn’t you. He has his own bark, his own steps, his own way of being a puppy. But in the way he curls up after playing, in the way he follows me from room to room, in the way he sleeps like he trusts the world too easily— I keep finding pieces of something I lost. Not a replacement. New warmth