📖 The Note in Her Collar — Part 10
Spring came full.
The trees filled in like memory returning—slow, hesitant, then all at once. The air grew warm again, soft and kind. Walter found himself waking earlier, eating better, even walking farther than before. The ache in his knees still barked some days, but the weight in his chest had lightened.
He visited June daily now.
Sometimes she knew his name. Sometimes not. But it no longer hurt the way it used to. Because even on the foggy days, when time folded in strange ways and she asked if he was her brother or the mailman, she still reached for his hand.
And held on.
—
One morning in early April, June’s nurse pulled Walter aside.
“She’s asking for you,” the nurse said, voice low. “She said it’s time.”
Walter didn’t need to ask what that meant.
He just nodded.
—
June lay in bed, a quilt pulled up to her chest, the yellow scarf folded neatly across her pillow. She looked smaller than he remembered—like a page folded too many times. But her eyes were wide open.
She smiled when she saw him.
“Hey, Walt.”
He pulled up the chair beside her and took her hand.
“I remember everything today,” she said. “Even the way your voice used to crack when you lied about finishing your chores.”
Walter chuckled, though tears were already slipping down his cheeks.
“You were always better at remembering,” he said.
“Not anymore,” she whispered. “But today… I do.”
She looked toward the foot of the bed.
“I dreamt of her last night.”
“Lola?”
June nodded.
“She was running. Her tail was high. And I was chasing her like we used to in the orchard.”
She paused, eyes full.
“She waited until I wasn’t afraid anymore.”
Walter reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the small photo from the box—the three of them in the courtyard, sunlight in their faces.
He set it on the nightstand.
June stared at it a moment.
“She looks happy,” she said.
“So do you.”
She turned back to him.
“I never said thank you.”
“You didn’t have to.”
He reached into his wallet and unfolded a fragile, creased piece of paper.
The one that started everything.
He laid it gently in her hand.
“If found, please remind me to smile.”
June stared at it, her lips trembling.
And then, slowly, she smiled.
It wasn’t a wide grin or a flash of teeth.
Just a quiet, knowing smile—small and sure, like a promise kept.
“I remember now,” she said.
Then closed her eyes.
And never opened them again.
—
They held the memorial under the dogwood tree.
Walter sat in a folding chair beside the small wooden marker that now read two names: Lola and June. He’d had the stone re-carved by hand. A gift from a local artist, who heard the story and asked for nothing in return.
Neighbors came.
So did staff from Mayfield Pines.
Even the little girl from the park came, holding her floppy-eared pup and offering him a crayon drawing of a dog beneath a tree.
Walter smiled and tucked it into his coat pocket.
As the wind stirred the branches above, a single petal drifted down and landed on the picture of Lola resting on the table beside the flowers.
No one moved it.
It stayed there the whole service.
—
Walter kept living.
Not loudly, not busily.
But deeply.
He walked the same path every morning, stopping at the edge of the woods where Lola first appeared. Sometimes, when the sun hit the trees just right, he imagined he could see her silhouette—tail raised, waiting.
He checked his sugar now like clockwork.
Ate three meals a day.
He spoke more. Laughed more. Even volunteered once a week at a pet adoption center, reading stories aloud while dogs lay curled at his feet.
And every Sunday, he brought fresh daisies to the dogwood tree.
He’d sit, sip coffee from his chipped mug, and talk out loud.
Sometimes to June.
Sometimes to Lola.
Sometimes just to the wind.
—
One day in late May, Walter was walking back from the tree when a car pulled into his driveway.
It was the nurse from Mayfield Pines. Her eyes were red, but her smile was kind.
“I found something,” she said, handing him an envelope.
“No return address. But it’s for you.”
Walter opened it slowly.
Inside was a photograph.
A black-and-white image of two children running through an orchard.
Him and June.
Barefoot.
Smiling.
And written on the back in pencil:
“You reminded me.”
—
That night, Walter placed the photo in a new frame.
Set it beside the old collar on his mantel.
Then sat in his chair, leaned back, and closed his eyes.
And for the first time in a long while, he didn’t feel like he was waiting for anything.
Because the waiting was done.
The love had stayed.
The story, full circle.
—
[The End]
🐾 Thank you for reading.
If it reminded you of someone you’ve loved and lost—human or animal—perhaps remind yourself to smile today.
Because somewhere, in some quiet corner of memory, they still are.