You had a young, rambunctious chocolate labrador named San-Fran. I would look down at you two from the window of my flat, holding a cup of earl grey close to my face, its steam rising in the morning light.

At 6:15 a.m. you’d emerge from the building across from Pennington Avenue in tow of San-Fran, relentlessly barging onward, bubbling with enthusiasm for his first walk of the day.

I studied your mannerisms. How thoughtfully you’d pick up a piece of litter. How well dressed and exuberant you looked for a man in his early nineties. How strong and methodical your movements were as you stepped down onto the walk way. You were a man of your own pace, of your own volition, and so completely in control despite San-Fran’s persistent pull.

Your face was marred with the deepest wrinkles you’d ever bare, yet you talked on your cell phone like a teenager. You laughed like everything was ok. And when you spoke, people stopped to consider what you said.

It’s 6:20 now, no sign of you, and in my heart I know you’re dead