He came back. I saw him in the grass, the white of him glowing in the floodlight, the wind turning it off and on again. I saw his face at the door, waiting to be let in, his nose leaving smears across the glass. Days later I heard him in the kitchen pacing blindly for his supper and that night a soft crinkle as he shifted in his bed. Love wants to be fed. It will return again and again, holding a memory firmly in its jaws, and you must throw or keep. It will grow old, too weak to walk. You’ll carry it everywhere at the end until it nods, turns in a circle, lies down.