Maybe a cookie will help. But it doesn’t and you vomit quietly in the backyard.
Anger replaces the dark pain. Fist against door frame, foot against top stair. Maybe you broke your toe.
The small house with a red roof is still there. You crawl in, pull the old blanket with “My Doggy” hand stitched in blue thread around you. Maybe you can dream together of the best wild days with the Frisbee in the park.