KAT GIORDANO
[Text ID: Explaining Time to My Dog
a work day is sixteen walks long - eight of those big ones, where we don't make that left turn off 14th and pass the house with the year-round inflatables. a year is the time between when the other houses take their inflatables down and when they put them back out, the time between fireworks finales, but also the time it takes me to walk to the mailbox and back with you staring out the window. but also the time it takes for me to run a 5k in the morning. in other words, a year is also 30 minutes. 30 minutes is the length of a walk, but also the refractory period after a walk before i have to start spelling it again instead. i'm sorry, but it is what it is. we all have words the people we love can't say to us, not because they'll hurt us but because it'll feel too good too fast and your feelings are scary, that look on your face when you're running full-tilt at someone who's not ready yet, who's still putting their shoes on. it's the not-readiness they're afraid of, the way it makes them feel to see you feeling. the way they wish they had something to say other than "wait" and the way they can't define that word. it hurts, but you figure it out eventually, the sounds of the letters, the shapes of them in their mouths, the certain way they breathe, like their hand is already on the leash across the room.
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