To The Ones Who Came Before

To the ones who came before me,

I did not meet you,

but your scent still lingers in dark corners,

behind ancient oak furniture,

and far under the magnificent bed.

I find it when she least expects me,

when I go searching for any secret treats I might discover,

or when diving after a rogue toy that forgets how to play properly.

I wait until she seems too distracted to notice

and then I go wandering.

I did not know you, but I can tell from the last traces of your fur

and the dust that collects with it

that you were made of the same things as me.

And that she loved you just as much.

I know she did because I can smell her in these places, too.

As if both of your scents have combined to form one.

You do not have to worry.

I will always stand by her side,

and place my head upon her chest as she sleeps,

to protect her from any bad dreams.

Every so often, she strokes my head in her sleep.

And I wonder if it is you or me, she pets.

Perhaps in times of slumber, there is no difference.

Perhaps, at night, we are all one:

she, me, and the ones who came before,

a transcendent kind of love.