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On December 15th, 2002 I watched the snow fall over the streets of Chicago for the very last time. They don’t tell you when you’re young just how hard it gets when you’re older. They don’t prepare you for the cold that the world hits you with. It never used to bother me so much. I have never been the type of person to let fear strike me or the cautions of others get me down. The realization that the world is a bitter place is more than bitter in itself, but it doesn’t come as a surprise. I used to sit back and watch the bitterness unfold before my eyes. I would watch people pass me on the street, ignoring me or throwing disgusted glances. My dog, Mara, would bark occasionally, giving a low growl to anyone that dared look at us with distaste. There was once a time where I thought it amusing. I used to convince myself that it wasn’t actually as bad as it seemed, that maybe I was just seeing it in the wrong light. I see now with no light at all. I have no rose-colored glasses. My lenses are gray and always fogged.

My company for the past five years has been Mara. Without her, I would have been gone long ago. Growing up, I had plenty of dogs. My father detested them, but my mother was as loving as they come, bringing home any stray she found wandering. Mara and I, we’re in the same boat. I found her one day in the spring, prancing around the park like she was queen of everything. I was sitting on a bench, chowing down on a granola bar I swiped from the convenience store two blocks down the street. Mara came right up to me, her little tail wagging faster than a hummingbird’s wings. I knew she was like me, and if that were true, she was hungry. I gave her the last half of my granola, watching as she swallowed it almost whole. Her ears perked right up and she jumped up next to me on the bench. After that, she’s followed me everywhere. I could never ask for a better friend.

With a million thoughts buzzing in my mind, I lie on the freezing slab of cement sidewalk beside an alleyway. Mara curls against my concave chest, trembling and frozen. The winter this year is a fierce one and I curse out loud at the weather for its cruelness. I let out slow, deep breaths in her direction, trying to keep her warm. I can feel my toes burning white-hot, and as the night grows colder and my thoughts get louder, they begin to freeze and go numb. I peer out through half-closed lids, staring off into the street. The street lights cast a warm glow onto the snowy ground. It’s almost beautiful and makes me think of the sun. How I ache for the sun right now. As I watch the snow slowly collect onto the rooftops of cars and lamp posts, I can smell the faint scent of apple and cinnamon. I remember what it was like to see my mother in the kitchen, wearing her blue ruffled apron with my father’s arms wrapped around her waist. I can see her smiling up at him, lovingly gazing into his eyes, and my father smiled, too. His smile was rare, but when he did, it was one of the best ones you’d ever see. Just like that, I’m back home in my old room, blanket wrapped around my shoulders and flashlight in my hand. My brother, Terrence, and I sat huddled beneath the blanket, flashlight in hand, and a few comic books spread out before us. Mother didn’t like us staying up late and reading. The memory of my family causes a painful sting in my heart.

I can feel Mara’s chest rising and falling less and less as each minute passes. I know she’s dying, I can feel it in my aching chest. I try to get up but my legs are so cold and I am shaking too much. The snow is piling on faster and faster now. All I can do is hold her skinny body close to me and hope that she makes it to morning. That’s when I find myself praying for the first time in years. I close my eyes as tight as I can, praying to whoever might be out there that Mara makes it through the night. I pray that she wakes up tomorrow and prances around like she used to. I pray that someone will see her bobbing through the snow, head high and tail wagging. I pray that they will laugh and see how skinny she is, how she’s on the brink of losing her battle, but that they’ll know that she’s worth saving. I pray that they will take her to the vet and fix her up, see how hopeful she is, how much she wants to be alive. I pray that they will take her home and love her until she’s full. I know she isn’t ready yet. Even at her age, she isn’t ready to let go of living just yet. As for me, I just pray that I’ll get to see my mother’s beautiful face again.

The wind begins to howl louder than I have ever heard. I need someone to be out there and see us, lying in a bank of snow. All I can see is an empty street, filling with snow. My cheeks burn red, I can feel the blood desperately trying to keep my body warm. A painstaking shiver runs through me. There was a time I had felt this cold before. When I was a boy, my father brought my brother and me ice fishing. I was trembling with excitement, wondering what kind of fish we would get. I dreamed of the biggest fish I could possibly imagine. It was 50 feet long and 10 feet wide, marked with yellow and green and striking blue eyes. Disappointment washed over me when I realized the hole in the ice wasn’t even a foot in size. Terrance assured me we would still catch something nice. While my father and Terrance sat with the pole, I wandered off. My small feet pounded against the thick ice as I ran towards the shore. That’s when I heard my father shouting my name and I turned around to see Terrance and him running after me, fear written clear across their faces. I didn’t know why they were so scared until I heard a crack in the ice. Before I could even look at my feet, I went down, water surrounding me. I tried to breathe but all I got was water rushing into my lungs, freezing me from the inside. I blacked out after that, but when I woke up, I could still feel the burn from the cold inside my lungs.

That’s how it feels to breathe, lying on this sidewalk. Air scratches inside of my lungs and throat until it feels raw. My chest feels like it is frozen, rejecting any air I try to inhale. I want to hold my breath because the pain is almost unbearable, but if I do, Mara wouldn’t stand a chance. I have to make it till morning for her. My only reason for living these past years has been for this little dog. The light in her eyes was the only motivation I needed to keep breathing. I’ve never seen such determination from such a small thing. I couldn’t let her light go out. Mara needs me, and I need her. Sometimes I wonder if she understands how I feel, how much I love her. I wonder if she knows her time is coming.

I can feel my heartbeat slowing. Knowing that I, too, am dying, is not comforting. I have wished for death before. On the nights where I was so hungry I felt like eating anything in sight, I wished for hunger to take me. When the sun got so hot my lungs ached, I wished for death. I wished to be swept away like measly prey caught between the beak of a barn owl. Death seemed so easy, so sweet. It felt like it would be the most comforting escape from the painful reality of life. But here on the cement, I wish for life. I wish and pray for another chance. I’m not ready to give up. I want to try harder, I want to do better, I want to make my father proud for once. I want my mother to cheer me on from heaven. I want to save others like Mara and give them the lives they deserve. If I can just live another day, I know I can do something right. Death no longer feels like an escape, it feels like an inevitable prison.

With my body failing and my life staring death in the face, I see a vague shape looming down on me. The familiar silhouette of my brother stands above me. His face is tired and old, wrinkled, and worn with age. I blink a few times, wondering if I’m hallucinating. He reaches out his hand, brushing his warm fingers against my frozen cheek. I don’t actually hear him say a word, but I feel it. He tells me to close my eyes and rest. He tells me that it will all be okay, that mother will be here soon. I smile as my eyes flutter closed. The sweet, soft sound of her voice fills my ears.

“Robert, come home. It’s time to rest.”

I open my eyes one last time, watching the snow fall over the street, coating it with a thick blanket of white. My gaze shifts up towards the street lights, the yellow haze bright and welcoming. The light grows larger and larger, the haziness turning into a beacon of pure warmth and serenity. Now, all I can see is a stark, dreamy glow ahead of me. Sometimes, you have to accept the things you are given. Sometimes, you have to accept that you’re damaged. Sometimes, you have to accept your faults for what they are. No one can be perfect at everything. No one ever gets to fulfill all of their life goals. I know that I, at least, got to cherish the ones that I love. I know that I, at least, got to see my family one more time. Life is a gift, and death is the rightful and peaceful end to it. That night, I was given the best gift of all: home.