It’s often when I go to sweep the floors
that it comes back
in a wave
to crash over me.

How I haven’t swept the floor
in over a week.

How, even then,
I am barely collecting anything
in the dustpan.

How all I can see in the dustpan
is dirt, mostly.

There’s no more dalmatian hair
clumping together in the dustpan
or sprinkled across the floor
within minutes of putting away
the broom in the closet.

There’s no more dalmatian hair
because you’re no longer here.

And it crashes over me,
the wave of grief.