For months, I’d brought my therapy dog, Riley, to the hospital, where patients adored his golden fur and wagging tail. But today was different. In a quiet room, we met Mr. Callahan, an elderly man staring blankly at the ceiling, unresponsive for weeks. The nurse hoped Riley could help.
Riley jumped onto the bed, resting his head on Mr. Callahan’s chest. After a tense silence, the man’s hand twitched, then rested on Riley’s fur. “Good boy,” he rasped, shocking us. Then, “Marigold…” slipped out, a fragile memory. He spoke of Eleanor, his wife of fifty years, who brought him marigolds every Sunday. She’d passed from cancer two years ago, leaving him lost, silent, and uncaring—even their garden’s marigolds died.
Riley’s presence stirred something. Mr. Callahan said I reminded him of Eleanor, who loved animals. He shared their love story, the pain of her loss, and how Riley felt like a gift from her. He asked to go outside, where he spotted marigolds in the courtyard. Tears fell as he touched them, not from sadness but gratitude.
That evening, I realized Riley didn’t just spark words—he rekindled connection. Healing isn’t forgetting; it’s carrying love forward through memories, flowers, or a dog’s gentle nudge, guiding us back to light.
