He Waited for Her Too

My wife came home from work at 5:30 every evening.

Not approximately 5:30.

Exactly 5:30.

I used to joke that you could set the clocks by her.

And every afternoon, about ten minutes before she arrived, our dog Charlie would take his position at the living room window. Charlie was a golden retriever we'd adopted when he was barely a year old.

Technically, he was our dog. But everyone knew the truth.

He was hers.

At 5:20, he'd climb onto the couch and stare through the window. At the sound of her car turning onto our street, his tail would start hitting the cushions. Then he'd jump down and wait at the door. By the time she walked inside, he was usually carrying something to greet her with.

A tennis ball.

A sock.

Once, one of my shoes.

She'd kneel on the floor in her work clothes and let him climb all over her.

"Did you miss me?"

Every day.

Same question.

Same answer.

For nine years.

Then my wife got sick. At first, we thought we had time. Doctors are careful with their words when they don't want to make promises.

Months became hospital visits. Hospital visits became overnight stays.

Eventually, 5:30 came and went without her.

Charlie still waited.

When she was well enough to come home, he seemed to understand that things were different.

He stopped jumping on her.

Instead, he'd walk slowly over and rest his head in her lap.

She would run her fingers through the fur behind his ears.

"My good boy."

Those were some of the last words I heard her say to him.

My wife died on a Tuesday morning in February.

She was fifty-one.

For the first few weeks afterward, I barely noticed anything.

People brought food.

Flowers arrived.

There were phone calls I didn't answer and sympathy cards I couldn't bring myself to open.

Charlie followed me everywhere. He slept beside my side of the bed. He waited outside the bathroom. If I moved to another room, he followed. I thought he was worried about me. Maybe he was.

Then one evening I noticed something.

At 5:20, Charlie got up.

He walked into the living room.

Climbed onto the couch.

And looked out the window.

I didn't think much of it.

Until he did it again the next day. And the next.

At exactly 5:20.

He'd sit there staring down the street. Around 5:30, his ears would lift whenever a car passed.

Sometimes he'd stand.

Then the car would keep going.

And he'd lie back down.

The first time I understood what he was doing, I had to leave the room.

I sat on the kitchen floor and cried.

I'd spent weeks thinking I was the only one waiting for someone who wasn't coming home. I wasn't. Charlie waited every evening.

Spring came. Then summer.

Still, at 5:20, he'd go to the window.

I never tried to stop him.

Eventually, I started sitting beside him. Neither of us needed anything from the other.

We just watched the street. Some evenings I'd tell him about her.

"You remember how she used to sneak you chicken under the table?"

His ears would move when I said her name. I don't know how much he understood. Probably more than I gave him credit for.

It's been two years now. Charlie is getting old.

His face has gone white, and climbing onto the couch takes him longer than it used to. But most evenings, around 5:20, he still makes the trip to the window.

And most evenings, I sit beside him.

At 5:30, cars turn onto our street.

Headlights pass across the walls.

Doors open. People come home to the people waiting for them. Ours doesn't.

For a long time, I thought grief was something uniquely human.

That we were the ones who remembered dates and routines and empty chairs.

Then I watched an old dog stare down the same street every evening.

Now I think grief is simpler than that.

Maybe it's just love with nowhere to go.

Charlie still waits for her at 5:30.

And if I'm being truthful...

"so do I."