The Impossible Reality of An Empty Bedroom

If I left her room untouched, it would keep Ana 15 years old forever, trapped within the amber of my memory.

Ana’s bed a few days after she died — Photo by author

“And here I am, budding among the ruins.” — Pablo Neruda.

After she died, I was preoccupied with her things, in the meaning I’d placed on the objects that she’d cherished during her life.

I wondered what to do with her finite collection of treasures. It was a singular dilemma — how could I possibly keep her room the same, but how could I change anything?

I know now what I didn’t back then. I was waiting for Ana to come home. Logically, I understood that she’d died, but I existed in a kind of fugue state, unable to grasp the reality of her death.

The dog finally snapped me out of it.

I read once that dogs learn to anticipate exactly when we’re coming home by the way our scent fades. They learn our daily routines — when we’re coming and going — and they start looking for us even before they hear the sound of our car turning into the driveway or our footsteps on the sidewalk.

Dogs recognize how the bright thread of our scent changes over time. They’re so attuned to our smell that when it fades to a certain point, they begin to look for us because they know it’s time to recharge the scent.