I write today, as I often do, with Copper curled beside me. Like many dogs, he likes to lie with his back against a barrier. The barrier might be a couch cushion, a bookcase, a cool metal filing cabinet or, in this case, my lap.
There is probably an entire literature on canine sleeping habits, the desire for warmth and closeness bred in pack animals. But from where I sit, it's simple: I have his back. There is something solid behind him. He will not drop off into the void.
In this context, then, having one's back against the wall does not mean a lack of choices, a last stand. It means backing, support and protection.
I think about my family, house and neighborhood — the bulwarks I've built, the people and places that stand behind me; the people and places I stand behind, too. They are my guard rails, my talisman, my way to fill the void.