And I’m walking Greta and Tala and thinking about grief because I’m putting my dog to sleep today sometime between 11 and three, and I asked the vet to text a half hour before he arrives to give me a chance to run home because I’m on my 15 hour workday stretches—it’s been spring break for folks over the last two weeks—plus I’m moving and the order in which to triage the chaos is like looking in every direction for due north because your entire system is malfunctioning.
And it’s a cool morning, and the girls’ fur sways to our movement.
And I look to the sky and think of my dog; how she came to me while I was living a life I don’t even recognize anymore and grew with me and I with her, and how this week, I’ve been fighting this day with steaks hastily cooked, trying to get her to eat so she doesn’t vomit up her meds because certainly something will work so she can end her days without chaos, with my daughters and friend Ellen and I surrounding her in the new place. Fighting this day because I want her to ease out of this life enveloped in the peace akin to going from one room in her home to another.
And as I looked at the sky, I breathed deeply that she could tell me a story about perseverance. But instead she showed me something else. Instead she showed me the dawn of this day, when I woke up with my dog next to my bed (now a mattress on the ground for moving) on this her last day, and of placing my hand softly on her back to thank her for finding her way into my life so that I could wake up knowing the gift of such selflessness. My hand telling her she was an ear when all other clamored to speak.
For that we lived to make our journeys a little better, it will always be so.
And the sky then said, Amy, there is no grief; there is only love. And the mountains agreed. And I inhaled deeply for I knew it was true.