It goes like this:
Every moment is still a grieving moment. Every moment is still the carrying of what is lost, compounded by what is found, and makes less sense as the time passes. And then, I find myself on the floor of a hotel room with my pup, throwing a ragged squeaking toy duck across the slick fake wooden floors. She brings it back in a half retrieve, half cuddle, and I am laughing at her and the pain is easing.
And then the dread seeps in. I don’t recognize it’s source, but I recognize the feeling.
“Oh no,” I say to my Someone, “it’s happening again.”
“I know,” he says.
Love without a safety net. Love even though you know it’s going to be ripped from your arms faster than the squeaker from a toy duck in the jaws of an 83 pound puppy.
The sick feeling passes.
“You are going to shred me one day,” I say to my puppy, “But it’ll be worth it.”
She puddles up on my lap.
Love is a bitch.