All you have to do is look at my four-legged son to understand. Those who have eyes will see. We met on my birthday in 2009. My husband mentioned our conversation about having a puppy to a friend at work and it happened that his dog had recently given birth to a male and female mini terrier mix. Bailador, who had yet to show me his name, was delivered to our door in less than an hour after I arrived at our place in Phoenix. My husband went to the door and, when his friend from work stepped inside, greeted me from across the room and rested something small and furry on the ground, it was all over but the shouting. I went down on my knees weeping for joy. The fur moved in my direction and licked away my tears. Though I had arrived late, the plan remained to go out for a birthday dinner. It didn’t seem right to welcome a new member of the family and leave him at home so I emptied the contents of my shoulder bag, put my pink neck roll inside and set the puppy upon it and took him along for the ride. We became inseparable.



To salve something unnamed yet excruciating last Sunday I held onto my hunger after Adult Sunday School long enough to find comfort food at a place named equally comfortingly, “eat.” The server recommended that I add bacon to The Killer Grilled Cheese that comes with a side of Tomato Soup garnished with green herbs and shaved Parmigiana Reggiano.
I surrendered.


So sweet was the memory of that meal that today, on a break from my volunteer shift at the Composition Conference, I returned for more of the same.


Heart still in shards three days later, I receive the finishing touch of the chef – her grilling of the third side of love’s familiar triangle – as a kiss.