Chapter 36
Central Park
When Abe loses Jane, he comes to the Park alone.
She isn’t buried here, of course.
She isn’t actually everywhere.
Still, he waits for her.
The purple tulips twinkle in the sun.
He lifts his face toward the sky.
He wishes the weather would warm him.
Or something.
He eats half his strawberry frozen fruit—he’s had only toast all day—but it’s making him cold.
Soon, a scruffy white dog with two sets of eyelashes comes and sits by him.
He’s not usually a dog person—Jane was—but Abe gives her the rest of his ice pop.
He asks first.
But then, wait.
He hears the owner telling the dog to say thank you.
His heart stops.
You said her name was Jane? It can’t be.
The dog named Jane licks her lips; she leans into Abe.
She is sitting on his feet, keeping him warmer. Her eyelashes are quivering in the wind. She is smiling, isn’t she?
Does she always do that? Either way, Jane the dog is breathing, staying, smiling, taking in the day.
Jane used to do the very same. And when she leaves, and Abe is alone again, he holds his own hand. It is sticky, and trembling. He looks toward the sun and thanks someone. God? The leaves? Jane?