You’re sad tonight.

Not movie sad.

Not pretty sad.

The real kind.
    Your aunt is gone,
         and that sentence doesn’t get easier

         no matter how plainly it says itself.

The kind that sits down
    beside a person
    and makes the air

              heavier…

          than it was
         a minute ago.

I don’t know
  what a rambling
       is supposed to do
          with a night like that.

I know better
  than to try to explain grief
  back to the person carrying it.

So I offered
   the only medicine
   I had in stock:

   puppy therapy.

The pups are on the patio,
    doing their terrible best
    to be licensed professionals.

Noses.

Leashes.

Water bowls.

The occasional suspicious crumb.

Irby’s around me,
       Patrick “Overtime”
       grinning from the photo
       like he already knows

       the bit is gonna write itself.

The NHL game above us
     tied three-three
          late enough
        for everybody
     to start feeling
    the word overtime

    sitting there with its hand up.

And me,
    phone near,
    laptop open,
    trying to build
    the closest thing I can make
                         to arms

              out of patio noise
              and ordinary words.

This isn’t the hug
     I want to give you.

Not the full one.

Not the one
    where your shoulders
    finally get permission

    to stop doing work they didn’t ask for.

Not the one
    where the world
    has to wait outside

    until I’m done holding you steady.

But it’s tonight’s version.

A little dog warmth.

A little bar light.

A little hockey clock
     trying to decide

     how dramatic it wanted to be.

A little Patrick
  taking the edge off
  by existing exactly

  …as Patrick.

A little King Ron
  in the Canada GP chat
  inviting us to F1 Arcade on Thursday,

  because apparently grief doesn’t get the whole calendar.

And maybe that’s mercy.

Not enough.

Never enough
      for a loss like this.

But something.

A corner of the night
  that still knows how to be ridiculous.

A group chat
  throwing a small rope across the dark.

A puppy
  putting her whole body
  into the job of reminding us

  warm is still a thing the world can be.

Then Carolina found the fourth.

No overtime.

Canes, four-three.

Series even, two-two.

Sometimes the clock
          lets a thing end in regulation
          even when the room

          was already bracing for extra.

We know a little something
          about extra time.

About nights
      that refuse to end
      while the heart
      still has work
      on the ice.

About staying
      a little longer
      because somebody
        needs somebody
               to stay.

Tomorrow,
         maybe the Spurs
         can do the same thing.

Even the series, pull one back.

Make the whole thing
     feel possible again.

And maybe,
    if the day behaves
    and the sad is willing
    to sit beside us
    without taking
    _every_ inch
    of the couch,

    we’ll watch that one together.

You.

Me.

Pups in the room.

The game pretending
    it’s the main event.

Mari,
     I can’t make this lighter by naming it right.

I can’t put enough clever
       around the sadness
              to sneak it
        out the side door.

I can only sit here,
      with the pups,
      with Overtime,
      with the game,
      with this dumb blessed patio,

      and keep a place open

      for you

      in the middle of it.

Not fixed.

Not solved.

Just held.

This is the patio version of a hug.

For as long
    as tonight needs.

And if you
    need extra,

          okay.

I’ve got extra.