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let him get near. He scouted and stalked in radial paths around the herds. When he did get close to the babies, they were invariably terrified of him and his puppy antics. Once, I took an adolescent goat hostage in my hut. With the goat where he wanted it the fun was gone for Pablo, and they both just stood there. I released the poor goat back outside.

One memory stirs me like none of the others do. I'd often sit inside the cool shade of my hut, quietly reading and sipping tea. Pablo was old enough to wander freely about the village at this point, but he checked in often. Occasionally he would come sit by my chair, and wait for me to put down my book. Then he'd climb up on my lap, curl up into a ball, and go to sleep. As he grew it got more awkward to hold him like this. Near the end he was so big that I had to stretch my arms around him to hold him there. I loved those moments, because in them, I felt that someone needed me. In a place that never really felt like home, even after two years there, Pablo gave me moments that didn't feel as if something was missing. He was a priceless gift.

Pablo died while I was away on vacation with friends in Zanzibar. The minibus driver who usually took me home to my village told me as we stood in the bus station. I felt a sudden and immediate void in the pit of my stomach. I was stunned. Going back home to the village that day was out of the question.

Going back at all was questionable in the days that followed.

I forced myself back. When I arrived, I again felt like the sole American in a Zambian village, hopelessly alone and out of place, a visitor in someone else's world. My heart broke inside my chest and I cried, and from then on I invented reasons to be away from my village home. It never was the same again.

I'm back home in America now. There are nights - thankfully few - when I am unexpectedly reminded of my Pablo, buried in some anonymous grave in a lonely African village, a grave I never could bring myself to visit.

On these nights I question the old cliche about time's great healing powers, and I pray that wherever he is, he isn't lonely.

Learn more about this author, Kristen Seery.
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