Laughter through Tears and a Little White Dog

This isn't a story about a dog. Not really.

It's Tuesday, a warm June afternoon and I'm sitting alone in my living room. Criss-cross-applesauce in the recliner, dreading the phone call I know is coming. Finally it rings, and reading my aunt's name on the screen, I answer. "You have bad news."

"Depends on how you look at it," she says, crying.

And then I'm sobbing, large shaking cries that actually make noise. Cries that give the "boo hoo's" their creed. I hold myself and rock, in a fashion done only by those who are truly devastated.