Grief burns my heart. The friction of Time dragging me through its currents, away from my beloved companion.
The barest bloodstain remains in the cracks of the floorboards. A primal testament to her existence. A proof to my disbelieving mind that the only way out was death. I must accept this.
I thought the house would be quiet, but instead, it is loud with the sounds that were masked by her breathing, raspy with the cancer that ate toward her brain. The ticking of my favorite clock; the babble of the fountain on the landing; the gentle creaks of an old house offering me comfort. None of those are as beautiful as was the sound of her life.
Outside, I see her tracks through the snow. A whisper from the forever lost world of only yesterday. The world where she lay under my desk as I typed, careful to avoid disturbing her, because dogs train us that way. That whisper is already fading in the sunshine of today, and the melting snow abandons me to this new world and its uncertainties.
Who will I be without her?
I take out my toolbox labeled, “Moving On.” (There’s no such thing as “Getting Over.”) Inside, I find tears, pen and paper, long walks, good friends, and solitary afternoons on the back porch swing, listening to the lessons of the wind.
Maybe some day, my pack will expand to embrace another, but for now, there are only ghosts, and a profound sense of gratitude.
Daisy ~ September 1, 2004 ~ February 7, 2012
What are the tools that help you move on?