Emptiness spreads. A growl like a death rattle, I hear in the darkness. I throw my eyes out. Its tail wags through the centuries as our gene journeys through the generations. Its hue is white like my dad’s heart. Love seems burning bright in its brownish eyes. A strange dog. It rides its nose up a waste hill of paper plates. Its saliva, as my dad’s craving for life, falls down and dissolves in soil. It is not a ghost, but a deep love’s …. Now silence is our *lingua franca. First printed in issue#6, The Literary Hatchet. *a common language between speakers whose native languages are different.