There's a ritual in our house, a nightly laying on
of hands. Kids come, teeth brushed, laptops stowed,
to our bed. They're bigger these days, stretching
the length of our own bodies. Showering love owed

on the dog, a pure-breed full-grown runt: Buddy.
Underdeveloped tear ducts stain his fur deep
brown, damp symmetrical tracks from
eyes to snout. He accepts the love, from kids sleep-

ily giddy. They push aside his squeaky toy & 
the gnawed rawhide, its meaty marrow drained hours
or days ago. They lie down nose to nose with him,
holding his head in their hands, fully calmly ours.

When younger, they lay down hoping to stay the night,
spooning against his back, draping an arm
over his neck, their shared breaths a warm gentle metronome
marking the slow rhythm of a dying day, far

from the solitary beds where they belong. They
lingered; we let them, way back then, for a time. A family
at rest, warming the same bed. Pushing tomorrow
further away, drawing closer as one, sleepily,

to the symbol, the mascot, the blessed
embodiment of who we are, of how we love.