Holly

She sits down. At her desk. And selects a postcard. “Dear Elaine,” she writes. “I used to be married. Loneliest years of my life. They were. My husband thought if he read my posts. Online. On Instagram. That was all he needed to know. About me. My life. That he never needed to listen to me. Discuss anything with me. Plan with me. Talk to me. Not that he didn’t talk. He did. About himself. Endlessly. His worries. His problems. His complaints. His plans. Him. But here’s the thing. Instagram is not my life. A snapshot. A glimpse. That’s all it is. Too bad. He never knew that. Never realized I’m more than that. More than a post on Instagram. More. Much, much. More. Too bad. So I left him. And then, and then. Six months later. I saw a dog. A Yorkie. Her photo. On a dog rescue page. Holly. That was her name. This Yorkie. Sweet, calm, affectionate, low energy. That’s how the rescue described her. Ten years old. A senior with a skin condition. That too. But those eyes. That face. I couldn’t resist. Couldn’t. Drove four hours to meet her. Adopted her. That day. Took her to a wonderful groomer. For a super short cut. Bought special food. To heal her itchy skin. Bought her warm sweaters. Lots of them. I did. Because, because. She was mine. And now. We talk. Have wonderful discussions. Just the two of us. Holly and me. And now. She knows everything about me. All of it. All. Because she cares. Listens to me. Loves me. Hey. Forget Instagram. Forget it. Sometimes a dog is better than a husband. I mean, who knows, right? Well. I know. I do. Yeah. I do.” 

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