Wither

It's an awful feeling, watching something wither like a daisy drenched in summer's blazing heat. Time slows, emotions run irritably, and the moisture hanging in the air feels like a doctor's BP cuff clasped around my lungs. First, it's the crisp, white petals that turn a putrid, soggy brown. Before long, the tall, leafy stem that once held it all together has arched towards the ground, and no longer supports the flower's weight.

I make my way across the yard composed of brittle blades of grass. They almost break beneath my sandals, a trail of sunken footprints behind me. I've reached the wooden, rusted pen holding my two beloved pups. I watch their tongue droop from their mouths, trickling thick, sticky spit. Wolfie's breath is quick and labored, puffing his broad chest in and out. Peanut lazes in the shade, cloaked by a sea of overgrown weeds. The smiles on their snouts nearly break my heart, because I know they're hot and miserable. Yet, they still greet me with wet kisses each afternoon when I come out of the air-conditioned house. Though, I leave them all alone, in the early summer's blaze to wither.