Explaining Time to My Dog by Kat Giordano

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.