📗 Part 10 – Skippy and the Afternoon Light
April 16th, 2023 – Danner Hollow, Missouri
Spring came slow that year.
Not like it used to, when the cherry trees out front would bloom all at once and the kids on Main would race bikes in packs.
This spring crept in. Gentle. Careful.
As if it didn’t want to step too hard on old memories.
Martha understood that.
Skippy was the only one left now.
Just him and his mismatched paws, his too-long tongue, his bursts of energy followed by sudden naps in sun puddles.
He wasn’t a pup anymore, not really. The scruff on his muzzle had turned salt-and-pepper. He didn’t chase squirrels quite as far. Didn’t bark at the wind like he used to.
But he still waited by the door each morning, tail tapping against the frame like a soft knock.
Still curled at her feet when she sipped her tea.
Still looked back over his shoulder every time they walked past the oak tree out back.
Martha kept the two bowls on the shelf now.
Washed and dried. Tucked neatly beside their collars and the folded quilt.
Gramp’s blanket still lay across the porch rail when the sun was out. Bud’s tag still clinked quietly on her spare keyring.
She didn’t hide them.
Didn’t need to anymore.
Some loves stayed, even when the footsteps stopped.
Skip followed her everywhere now. Into the pantry. Around the aisles. Out to the garden.
If she bent down to weed, he flopped beside her. If she fell asleep in the rocker, he curled beneath it.
They moved like two shadows cast from the same hand.
Sometimes she talked to him like she would to Tom.
Sometimes, she just sat in the silence.
He never minded which.
One afternoon, the sun stretched longer than it had in months.
Martha opened the front door wide, let the warmth in. Skip bounded out, barked once at the wind, then circled back to her side.
She stepped out onto the porch, leaned against the rail, and looked at the road.
It was quiet. Still.
Just birdsong, the creak of her rocker, and the sound of nails tapping the wood beside her.
Skip sat, tongue hanging, eyes half-closed.
And in that moment — with light on her hands, breeze on her face, and a dog who had stayed when others couldn’t — Martha Ellison smiled.
Not the half-smiles of habit.
Not the tight-lipped smirks of defense.
But a full one.
Warm. Slow. Earned.
Evening came, as it always did.
She rose, knees aching. Turned to go inside.
Skip followed.
But before she closed the door, she looked back at the porch one last time.
Three bowls had once sat there.
Now only one remained.
But the space didn’t feel empty.
Not anymore.
Just full of what had been.
And full of what still might come.