My Mac

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My Mac

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For over 27 years, my lovely wife Linda said, "four kids and a husband, no dog!"
After my accident - our two daughters came running to me and said, "Dad! Mom was thinking about letting you have a dog, but now you are starting to get up and move around... we think she is losing the idea." Turns out they took Linda's comment out of context - but resulted in having Mac, a seven week old Cock-A-poo join our family of six - for just over 12 years until I found him at the end of our driveway... his trail of fluids "told" me - just after I drove into the driveway, he, most likley dieing - made it about 10 feet before he collapsed - trying to greet me one last time. No trama, no injuries, vet said, most likely - a heart attack, or some related "old age" death. I hurt so bad, missing him.
My constant companion, by my side everywhere i went - if possible, he went.  Anyone who has lost a loved pet, purhaps has an idea of how I feel. I dedicate this poem to him, in his memory - and for all who have, or will, face the final ending of a life so precious.

My Mac.

How do I begin?
Words have always given me great comfort.
They fail me at this moment...

He is still warm and soft,
But soon will chill in the small earthen grave
I just dug for him.

Who was he?
For over twelve years,
He filled our lives with every emotion imaginable.
Joy personified, with endless loyality.

Forever my buddy,
Loving unconditionally, everyone
Who loved him back.

Soft and gentle
His scent like angel breath,
His eyes like crystal pools of water,
Clear, and so expressive.

He came into my life soon after
I almost lost mine...
An accident left me with a broken neck.

My Linda and my girls
Brought him to me
As I recovered.

His eyes singled him out from the others,
They said.

I still see him lying in the morning sun,
His favorite spot on the driveway,
As I closed the car door.

I called his name, but knew in my heart,
He wouldn't run to greet me - one last time.

His soul, created in Heaven,
His heart, born with love.
For over twelve years, he completed our family.

It hasn't hit me quite yet,
And won't until I come home again,
And find silence.

Even now, as I struggle to write this poem
I am alone.

He isn't here by my side,
While I write.
An empty spot on the rug,
(where he always comes to sit until I finish)

Matches the empty heart somehow
Still beating within my body.


Steve Muras, (polishprince)
Wednesday, full of woe... 9/2/09.




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Poetry is not the expression of personality but an escape from personality.

T. S. Eliot (1888-1965) American-English poet and playwright.

polishprince’s Poems (7)

Title Comments
Title Comments
Our Christmas Gift. 1
A Long Time Ago. 0
My Mac 0
Childhood And Thunderclouds 1
Just taking time. 0
Dreamers 2
Traveled On Carpets Of Tome. 3