It didn’t happen the way we planned it. We thought we would
return from our India trip,
flanked by airplane rides across the oceans, being greeted by you.
You were what we
looked forward to. During every journey home, whether from across
the planet or
a neighboring suburb’s restaurant, you were the reason behind our
smiles. We would call
your name, “Mishti!” You would respond with the scuttle of your
small paws racing
against the tile of the hallway: a mini-horse galloping through a
suburban 4-bedroom house
accompanied by almond-shaped, grape-sized eyes. The percussion
of the eager thud of your long, brown tail, drumming against the
otherwise inert tile floors
of the kitchen or carpet. You made music of our home, Mishti. But
no, that day, we came
to learn that the music had stopped, the curtain had closed, you
had taken your final bow,
before we could applaud, you exited after a painful decline in your
art, the powers of your
drums, vocal chords and bellowing lungs had withered. To this day,
I long to hear your music,
Your gallop containing monsoon rains. The drumming of your
enthusiastic tail. The resonant
baritone of your bark.