After the rings
gave her a necklace
to be her father
for the rest of his days
to teach her, to keep her,
to love her always.
After the rings
gave her a necklace
to be her father
for the rest of his days
to teach her, to keep her,
to love her always.
The words roll round my mind as I drive to work, noting how the rising sun gilds the trees in all their fall colors against a deep charcoal sky. The sharp glory of it is beyond my power to describe. It’s beautiful. Haunting. Fierce. How can there be such detailed color and brilliance when the sky is so strangely dark? If a storm is brewing, why is the light so golden-bright? And where exactly is it coming from? The sun itself is hidden.
I cannot quite capture how I feel. It’s more than one thing. Awe. Reverence. Curiosity. A bit of foreboding.
Mostly gratitude for having been here to see it.
I am thinking a lot about the interplay of light and dark this holiday week.
And the fierce beauty of life.
My husband is here after a massive heart attack this summer. His surgeon said that his blockages were such that when the last artery went down that day, he had no reserve; he made a “medically inexplicable recovery.” This coming only three years after my husband lost an eye to ocular melanoma.
Light and dark, dark and light.
He lives to see our son get married the day after Thanksgiving. Not just to see it, but to officiate. After all the years of praying for the boy to go into the ministry and the boy saying, no, Dad, that’s not for me.
He ordained our son into the ministry three weeks ago.
Never say never.
Today the boy took the last of his things out of our house to finish setting up his new home. He’s gone, but not too far away.
He took his dog.
The last dog.
In two years, we’ve lost three: Nikolaus the dachshund to old age. Banjo the yellow Lab that I raised from age seven weeks to a new home because my husband can no longer manage a 90-pound dog after bypass surgery. And now Henry, the best of the best, the rescue dog whose sole mission in life is to extract and exude as much love as possible.
I am now dogless for the first time in almost two decades. On every one of those days I could always count on a happy greeting, an ever-faithful warmth, some commiseration or comic relief. No tail thumping tonight, no snuffling, whiskered nose in my hand, no nails scrambling on the floor in exuberance for a pat, a treat.
How strange is it that my son moves out and I write about missing the dog.
And another thing: I recently wrote about the two old mules around the corner, how one of them was sick. I often saw it lying on its side in the pasture as the other mule grazed nearby. The farmer didn’t want to put his ailing mule down, knowing that the other mule would grieve, as they had never been apart. He finally had to. When I rode by the following week, I saw the remaining mule standing bereft in the pasture. My friend who lives on an adjoining farm said the mule hadn’t eaten since its sister died. I dared not drive that way for a few days afterward, fearing what I’d see, or not see. But this week I braved it. I drove past the pasture. There was the mule, grazing, which made me happy. As I watched, a big orange tabby cat came strolling across the pasture to sit by the mule. It looked right in my direction, swishing its tail.
A once-in-a-lifetime photo shoot that I couldn’t stop and capture.
And then today as I went by . . . the cat was still there. In all these years of loving those old mules from afar, I have never seen any other creature in the pasture. That cat is there keeping that mule company. It was sent. I am sure of it.
What is life but a bizarre balancing act, a series of give and take, comings and goings, losses and comforts, laced with love, fierce in itself. A mosaic of light and color, a stark silhouette against a backdrop of darkest gray.
Every day is one to be celebrated.
Tonight I go to sleep in my dogless house, beside my husband who’s still here. We have one more son sleeping upstairs. Although there’s an ache, there’s not emptiness. I am grateful for that big orange cat who’s out in the pasture with the old mule left behind. I am grateful to see the glory and drama of autumn with the promise of celebrations to come. I am deeply grateful my oldest has found his calling at the same time great love has entered his life; on the day after Thanksgiving, he becomes a husband and a father all at once. It just so happens that his wedding day is the second anniversary of his grandmother’s passing; how she’d rejoice for him.
Light and dark, dark and light.
Oh, and on the wedding night, I get to bring home a little girl, officially my granddaughter; she and I will have our own celebration with Bride’s Cake ice cream and peppermint bark Oreos and probably the movie Frozen.
I put the Christmas tree up early, just for her.
How can there be so much light.
Note: After publishing this post, I learned that the big orange cat has a name: Sunshine.
We put the cookies in the oven
and we wait.
Good things take a while.
Like Christmas and growing up.
Like wedding days
and having children.
Like heart-dreams coming true.
It took a long time.
I had to wait.
My little boy had to grow up
and finally find your Mom.
It took a while
for you to get your dad.
Know what he told me?
“Mom, you’re getting a little girl
So much of life is waiting, waiting,
like my long ago-dream
So many books to read
and stories to share
and songs to sing
and places to go
and just to be
you and me.
So we put the cookies in the oven
and oh, we can hardly wait.
I heard their whispers, and I shouldn’t have, because they were in line in the hallway. There are Rules, you know . . . .
I looked around. There they were, not standing neatly in line but leaning out in varying degrees, trying to get my attention.
“What-? You all sound like a bunch of Parselmouths, hissing,” I said (Parselmouths being people who can speak snake language, for those of you not intimately familiar with Harry Potter, few though you may be).
And more whispers:
“The books came! There’s one for you!”
“Stop, you’re ruining the surprise!”
—I think somebody got elbowed, just then.
I taught a series of personal narrative lessons to this third grade class. I modeled my own narrative. They drafted theirs, conferred with their teacher, revised, conferred with me, revised. They did every bit of the work, made their own artistic choices in both writing and illustrating, asked a lot of questions. At the last I coached each child through final edits.
Then their teacher compiled it all and sent it off for publication.
This week, the books arrived.
These writers couldn’t concentrate when I came to the classroom Thursday afternoon to talk about opinion writing. They wriggled and writhed like puppies at their seats.
Because a flat package, wrapped in bright jewel-tone paper, waited on the reading table.
The tag read Mrs. Haley.
“Soooo,” I said, “this is what all the excitement is about? Am I supposed to open this now?”
—They almost burst.
When I picked up the package, they gathered so close around me that I felt slightly claustrophobic. I had a fleeting sense of Gru in Despicable Me, being surrounded by a sea of adoring Minions, countless giant eyes blinking in anticipation.
“Oh, wow—it turned out so well! It’s beautiful, everybody! I am so proud of you and your writing.”
They laughed, clapped, clamored, tried to tell me more stories about their stories . . . for they are, after all, authors.
I held the book to my heart, basking in the glow.
—They do not realize that they are the gift.
Last summer, a pair of finches made a nest on the wreath on my front door. I watched their family develop, day by day: Four eggs, four baby birds, four fledglings taught how to fly by their parents, and then they were gone.
I suffered empty nest syndrome. Literally.
I took wreath down for the winter and saved the little nest, because I didn’t have the heart to destroy a thing so beautifully made by tiny creatures that don’t have hands.
A Christmas wreath hung on the door until I finally got around to removing it in late January (well, it was festive; it brightened the winter-bleak days).
And I re-hung the “finch wreath,” which is clearly for springtime, but . . . I confess . . . I was hoping . . . .
And along mid-February—might it have been Valentine’s Day? Really?—I heard them.
The tell-tale cheerful chirps, the sweetest bird music, right outside my door.
My heart sang, too: You’re back, you’re back! Welcome home!
They built a new nest and then . . . nothing.
For weeks, nothing.
I began to worry, which makes no sense, because these tiny birds are much more adept at survival than I am. My worry was mostly selfish, I realized. I wanted the birds here, didn’t want them to change their minds, find another place. I wanted to hear their happy voices every morning, wanted the joy they unknowingly impart, wanted to see new life happen again.
Every day, I checked. The perfect little nest was barren. No finches in sight or within hearing.
The temperatures dropped below freezing again. Just as I began to fear that some fate had befallen my finch friends, I wondered: Is it possible that they knew another freeze was coming? That they built the nest as planned, right on schedule, but that they can hold off laying eggs until the cold spell passes? Can that happen?
Then, early yesterday morning, a chorus of chirpy cheer outside my door!
I had to go see . . .
—I have an egg!
Today at the exact same time will be another egg, tomorrow, maybe another, and soon I’ll know how big my little finch family will be.
But for now I just reflect, with reverential awe, on how the first egg came with the first bit of welcome warmth on the first day of the week.
My birds are back home, safe in their sanctuary, on Sunday morning.
And I sing for joy.
Here in the heart of North Carolina, epic snow and bitter temperatures haven’t been an issue.
We’ve had a different plague.
For nine dark days in a row, it’s rained.
Rain rain rain rain rain rain rain rain rain
Small rivers flowing over roads and through parking lots. Yards turned to absolute bogs. Maybe we can raise a bumper crop of Venus flytraps.
The farmers say it’s good for the cows, that continuously pulling their feet up high from so much mud as they walk builds their muscles (is this true? The rain is beefing up the beef?).
Not so for humans. The utter gloom left us in a zombie-like stupor.
Gray day after gray day after gray day . . . .what did the sun even look like? Feel like?
Wait—I remember reading something like this. I first encountered it long, long ago. A story of bad enchantment. . .
“When you try to think out clearly what this sun must be, you cannot tell me. You can only tell me it is like the lamp. Your sun is a dream; and there is nothing in that dream that was not copied from the lamp. The lamp is the real thing; the sun is but a tale, a children’s story” . . . Slowly and gravely, the Witch repeated, “There is no sun.” And they all said nothing. She repeated in a softer, deeper voice: “There is no sun.” After a pause, and after a struggle in their minds, all four of them said together: “You are right. There is no sun.” It was such a relief to give in and say it.
—C.S. Lewis, The Silver Chair
How easy to forget there ever was a sun, succumbing to the mind-numbing sound of rain, rain rain, just as Prince Rilian, Eustace, Jill, and Puddleglum fell under the spell cast by the strum, strum, strum of the Witch on her stringed instrument.
Until yesterday, that is, when I heard a sound other than falling water.
Just outside my bedroom window, birds were singing. Merrily.
Despite the pouring rain, on a morning with no sun, they sang with pure zest.
How it lifted my spirits. Surely the sun could not be far from returning. Surely the birds knew it, were proclaiming it ahead of time: This this this too will pass pass pass. This this too will pass pass pass, wait and see, wait and see . . .
Then, today, bit by bit, the grayness lifted. Yellow shafts of light suddenly spilled through the blinds; I ran right outside to revel in the brightness. Now, as the afternoon wanes, shimmering golden fingers are playing across my keyboard, my hands, the table, the walls. I think of a happy child, dancing, full of joie de vivre, joy of living.
Today just so happens to be Sunday.
And now I have a bit of song for you, little harbinger birds:
Little darling, it feels like years since it’s been here
Here comes the sun
Here comes the sun, and I say
It’s all right.
One day when I was off campus, the school psychologist sent me a text about a student:
He’s looking for you. He has a secret he wants to tell you.
I texted back: Tell him I’ll see him first thing tomorrow morning.
The student is my tiny friend who came to our school from another country several years ago. He landed in first grade with no English and a lot of frustration. When I met him that year, he was wearing a Superman T-shirt. I pointed to it and said, “Hey, you’re Superman.”
That’s how our friendship began.
I’ve written before about his perceptiveness, such as how he explained, after his bleak performance on a mandatory reading assessment, that he had Big Spanish while I have Big English. His English continues growing “bigger,” just as he’s growing in stature with each passing year. Although he remains physically small for his age, it’s hard to encapsulate or convey the power of his personality. He has enormous presence. He’s a dynamo. Strong-willed, yet a charmer. Witty. His thoughts are like quicksilver—always moving, fascinating, alive. He’s a keen observer; when he didn’t understand directions in class, he’d watch what other students did and quickly followed suit.
He tells his teachers: “Mrs. Haley is my friend.” He usually greets me by flying faster than a speeding bullet to throw his arms around me with a joyous cry: “Mrs. Haley!”
Then he asks if we can read or write.
That’s alchemy. When the gold finally appears.
So, as to this big secret he had for me . . .
I’m waiting for him when he gets off the bus. He barrels right to me, face beaming:
“I been looking for you! I have a secret!”
Extricating my midsection from his hug, I bend down. “That’s what I hear! So tell, me, what IS this big secret?”
“Shhh!” he says, in overly dramatic fashion, looking around. What a wonderful stage actor he’d be. He’s larger than life. He beckons me to lean in closer. He whispers: “I got a dog!”
I can’t imagine why this needs to be secretive, but, okay, I’ll honor it. “You did? That’s great! I LOVE dogs. What’s his name?”
He looks me dead in the eye. “Her,” he says. “It’s a girl.”
He has no idea what he’s just done. It’s profound. A sign of how well he’s mastering the language, for pronouns are often terribly challenging for English learners. I want to bask in it indefinitely, but I can’t stall now, I have to respond. Blinking, I stammer: “Oh, um—sorry! What’s her name?”
He looks around to be sure no one can hear, and whispers into my ear:
And then he skips away, grinning from ear to ear, this bit of quicksilver, bright as the blinding winter-white sun above us.
I can barely see for the tears welling in my eyes as he blends into the throng of students going to breakfast. I cannot verify that the story is true—that there’s really a dog, that he really named it after me—but this doesn’t matter. The story is his, either way. Born from his heart.
And he shared it.
A gift of pure gold.
That I’ll carry with me, always.
Previous posts about my inspiring young friend:
As sixth grade ended, my teacher recommended me for a summer enrichment camp.
“You’ll love it,” she said. “Every day for two weeks, you’ll get to study drama, writing, and photography.”
I desperately wanted to go.
When I brought the paperwork home to my dad, he frowned.
“I don’t think so,” he told me.
“But, Daddy, it’s a special thing. You have to be invited by your teacher and I get to study drama and writing. It’s going to be so much fun. I can even ride the summer school bus to get there every day—please, Daddy?”
“It costs, you know.” He sounded tired.
The attendance fee, I think, was twenty-five dollars. Maybe thirty. It didn’t seem like a lot to me, but I knew Daddy worried about bills. My mother had ongoing medical expenses; my sister and I took weekly allergy shots. I knew not to bother Daddy when he sat at the table with the checkbook—I wouldn’t go near the kitchen at all, for then he wore a worse frown than the one he was wearing now.
No point in pressing him. I went to my bedroom, shut the door, and cried.
Later that day, or maybe the next, Grandma called. After chatting awhile with my father about news, how our all of our relatives were in their little North Carolina hometown and how everybody was there in Virginia, she asked to talk to me.
Daddy handed me the phone. It had a long cord—really long. From its wall mount, the phone cord reached the floor. It would stretch from the kitchen down the hall to my room, where I could sit on my bed and talk in private.
“Hello, Dear,” she said, the warmth of it like June sunlight bursting through a break in the clouds. “I just wanted to hear your voice.”
My tears welled again. “I miss you.”
“Is something the matter?”
I told her all about the camp, about Daddy saying no because of the cost.
“How much is it?”
I told her.
“I’ll pay for it,” she said, uncharacteristically crisp. I could almost see the lift of her chin, the flash in her blue eyes. “I believe children should have the chance to do some things they really want to do.”
“Thank you,” I sniffled into the phone.
“Let me talk to your Daddy.”
And so it was that I went to the summer camp on the benevolence of my greatest advocate, Grandma.
Riding the bus with high school kids having to attend summer school in order to pass their grades was an adventure unto itself, but beyond that, camp was a laboratory of creativity.
I encountered pantomime for the first time, communicating story with the body, without words. I wasn’t especially good at it but some of my fellow campers—aged eleven, twelve, thirteen—were astonishing. One boy mimed being closed in by a shrinking box so well that the box was virtually visible. I watched, holding my breath, enthralled.
The drama teachers grouped us into fours, gave the groups four words, and challenged us with writing cohesive skits with these four words embedded in dialogue. My group’s words were—to the best of my memory—lion, clock, heart, flies. We were timed on the writing of the skit and the rehearsal of it, including the creation of minimalist props out of construction paper. My group, with me as scribe, wrote a farcical story of a doctor having to treat a patient who was attacked by a lion and who got away by throwing a clock at it, to which the Groucho Marx-esque doctor remarks: “My, how time flies!”
We entitled it “Dr. Heartbeat, Dr. Heartbeat” after a TV series that none of us really knew much about except that it seemed weird and therefore perfect: Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman.
We performed last for our fellow campers, to a standing ovation and teachers wiping their tears at our over-the-top slapstick antics. Yours Truly played the hapless doctor.
We studied fairy tales; we wrote and illustrated our own, to be “published” in laminated books we could keep. I wrote “The Littlest Mermaid,” having long been captivated by Hans Christian Andersen’s “The Little Mermaid.” Ages before Disney brought us red-headed Ariel, my pink-haired mermaid battled jealous bullies. When I wrote The other mermaids hated her, the writing teacher said, “Hate is a strong, terrible word. Do you think it belongs in a story for children?”
I revised: The other mermaids didn’t like her.
Ever since, I’ve thought about the power of one word, and when is right or not right to use it. And audience. And whether children should be shielded from the word hate, and when are fairy tales just for children?
In photography class, we campers built cameras from shoe boxes, learning about light leaks and timed exposures. I was able to produce a picture of a basset hound (they don’t move a lot) and my classmate sitting in a tree. The teacher explained that we were “photojournalists”—we’d write about the process of building and using our cameras, what worked, what didn’t, and why. He then encouraged us to write stories about the images we took and developed.
For a final writing adventure, the writing teachers invited us to look through a stack of glossy, full-page photographs. I chose two: One of a single coyote standing in a canyon, the other of four little coyote pups. I was taken by the animals’ beauty and the warm, reddish colors of the rocks.
Trouble was, I knew nothing of coyotes beyond the Road Runner cartoons. The animals in these photos were unexpectedly magnificent.
Thus began my first real foray into research. It began with place: Where do coyotes live? I needed to know. At home that night, I cracked open a dusty encyclopedia from the bottom shelf of the living room bookcase. After poring over the coyote entry, I chose Pueblo, Colorado, for my coyotes’ home. And having learned, somberly, that man is the coyotes’ worst enemy, I had an idea for a plot: Survival. After the mother or the father coyote is shot, the mate takes the pups on a journey to a new home. I also encountered the word ravenous for the first time . . . and when my teachers asked me to read my story for the gathering of families at the program on the last day of camp, I mispronounced it, saying that the coyotes ate ra-VEEN-yus-ly. “I wish I’d heard you read it aloud first,” a teacher apologized. “It’s RA-ven-ous-ly.”
Alas. Reader’s vocabulary.
It was decades and decades ago, but the richness of the camp is with me still: Every day an adventure, with something to discover, to explore, to synthesize into something new; an extension of myself, what I love, who I am. A wealth of learning compounded with interest, over time.
That Grandma made possible, because she believed it was important, even necessary. I later learned how much she wanted to take piano lessons as a child and her family couldn’t afford it. A charitable young preacher’s wife eventually taught her how to play.
And, ever the angel wielding the sword on my behalf, Grandma was willing to take a piercing in return; she sent me to the camp even though she knew it would shorten the time I’d spent at her house that summer.
Because, for some investments, the payoff is incalculable. Grandma understood this.
And even then I understood that I was, in so many ways, enriched beyond measure.
“So,” I ask the student, “what are some of your favorite memories from all your time in elementary school?”
She’s working on her fifth grade graduation speech. Making this farewell address to the school is part of her official role as Student Council President. She’s struggling with framing her thoughts, which is why I’m here.
She looks off in the distance, past the walls of the room where we’re sitting, scrolling back over the chapters of her young life. I wonder what she’s remembering. Maybe a time she accomplished something she thought she couldn’t? Winning a class competition? A book that a teacher read aloud? A moment in a lesson when she learned something powerful that will remain with her for the rest of her life? I hope that’s it because I want to know it. And tap into it.
Finally she smiles. “There was this one time my first grade teacher just started tossing candy around the room.”
I blink. “Um, okay . . . why did she do that?”
The student shrugs, still smiling. “I don’t know. I don’t think there was a reason. I just remember she had a lot of candy and she started tossing it around for us and the other classes.”
Six years of elementary school and this is her favorite memory.
Having nothing to do with learning, achieving, growing, or rationale . . . but everything to do with spontaneous joy.
“All right then,” I say as I jot notes. “You can put this in your speech. Maybe call it the time you remember it ‘raining candy’ and explain what your teacher did.”
“That’s good,” she nods.
“Can you think of any other special or meaningful moments from all your time here?”
I wait as she scrunches her face a bit, thinking hard. Then another big grin:
“Yeah, the time the fourth grade teachers got together and sang to our classes.”
They sang? I never knew they did this. I’m curious. “Why did the teachers sing to you?”
“Just for fun, I think.”
Her eyes are so bright.
We finish fleshing out the draft of her speech. She is pleased. As she heads back to her classroom, I walk the hallways, replaying the conversation, mulling the moments that hold significance for such an accomplished student.
Just simple, unscripted, uninhibited moments when teachers were having fun.
How few and far between are they?
But how priceless to students, in the long educational scheme of things.
I walk on, carrying both the lightness and the weight of it.
I write to celebrate you and your long, long life.
To thank you for the joy you brought and the love you gave for so many years.
To ask your forgiveness.
When you first came to our family, we were elated.
You see, we’d been looking for a little dog because we had a little boy who wanted one so badly. Big dogs frightened him.
But you were perfect.
And so you grew up together.
You weren’t always easy, but you were always, always loved. Despite the countless accidents in the house and that time you snuck a chicken strip off of little Cadillac Man’s plate and ran for all you were worth with your booty. Not to mention how you figured out a way to climb on top of the furniture to get the boys’ Valentine and Easter chocolate. And ate it all, leaving only the wrappers behind. More than once. How did you do it and not get sick?
We began to think, all things considered, that you might be immortal. After all, you outlasted legions of other pets. The boys began to joke about you plotting the demise of every other dog, for they came and went throughout the years, but you remained. No one questioned your alpha status. Not even the dogs seven times your size, when you took their rawhides and their pillows for your own. They just sat, blinking in respectful disbelief, at your Napoleonic powers.
There’s so much to say, for we shared so much together. I am thankful for my special place in your little heart. How, when you were young and strong, you’d jump up on the couch to curl up beside me or to crawl in my lap. For the hours I spent working on the computer and you were snuggled behind me, between my back and the chair. I loved you and your deep, abiding warmth, always near, just being. Just together.
How the boys loved you. How they laughed as we tried to teach you to roll over, to sit and beg, the two tricks you’d pull off multiple times in succession just to get one treat.
How much comfort you gave them when they were hurting, from boyhood to manhood. They held you in their arms, but you, well—you were holding their hearts all along.
Time is no friend, is it, old sweet Nik. Not when it takes your youth so that you can’t jump anymore but have to be picked up and carried. Not when it turns your face and paws so white. Not when it takes your sight, your hearing, even your ability to understand exactly where you are and what’s going on.
Here’s what I marvel over: That you tried to run through the grass like always, even when you couldn’t see. That you could still find me in bathroom getting ready for work each morning. That you never forgot where your treats were, or that you should get one after coming in from outside, even when it had to be broken into small pieces for you to chew. I knew you could only find them by smell; that’s why I put your broken-up treats on the kitchen rug, so you wouldn’t push them all across the floor trying to get them into your mouth.
I marvel over your ever-voracious appetite, how you ran for your bowl every morning, even if we had to guide you just a bit.
And I worried when you started losing weight.
The vet said your blood work was amazing for a dog of your age; never saw the like. Said your heart was strong. Said things like cancer can make a dog lose weight despite plenty of food, and it wouldn’t show in the blood. Gave you the pain medicine which made you sleep but also tore your bowels up so that we couldn’t give it to you anymore.
And still you rallied, although every day you got thinner and thinner.
Cadillac Man watched you staggering and falling in the yard.
Mom, he looks like a skeleton. He’s just going in circles.
Mom, it may be time.
Mom, I just got on the scales with him. He’s under seven pounds.
Three weeks before, you were about nine pounds.
When you were a young dog, you were nearly twenty pounds.
On Saturday, when I gave you your last bath, I could see every vertebra on your back, could feel every knob on your tiny tail. For the first time in your life, you sat in the bathwater, too weak to stand.
When we wrapped you in your “Happiness is a Dachshund” blanket to take you to another vet, I didn’t know it was going to be good-bye.
I thought maybe another medication would help. Or another suggestion. You’d made it so far, so well, until then. The regular vet said your heart was strong, so . . .
The new vet said:
I can’t fix the blindness.
I can’t fix the deafness.
I can’t fix the severe cognitive impairment.
You can run tests to see why he’s losing the weight, but it would only be for academic purposes. Just to know. He’s a very old, weak dog.
Cadillac Man looked at me, holding you in his arms:
Mom, there’s hardly anything left of him.
How to let you go like this, when you’d been so utterly trusting and loving your entire life?
You looked at me with your tired, cloudy eyes, and I wasn’t sure what you were seeing. Maybe me. Maybe not.
I couldn’t know how much pain you felt; you never complained. You just kept going, for it’s all you knew to do.
I loved you. I struggled then, I struggle now with the decision, but I believe the boy—the man—who loved you best knew what was best.
And so we stroked your sweet head when you breathed your last—one tiny sigh, of contentment, of resignation, of release—utterly, utterly peaceful.
And I take comfort where I can find it. When I read about euthanizing suffering pets, when I talk to others who’ve been there, I don’t question the logic. Of course no one wants to watch their beloved endure prolonged suffering. When I think of your ravaged little body, I know you couldn’t bear much more. Your determination, your will, was astounding. That’s where I struggle. That’s why I write. It’s a matter of the spirit, see.
I write to celebrate our long run together. Sixteen years.
I write to thank you for your unconditional love, and to tell you that mine is just as unconditional. I love you still, even now that you’re gone.
I write to thank you for the joy you brought to two young boys for so long. You’re indelibly written on their hearts, as long as they live.
I write to say I’m sorry. For all the times I lost my patience, for the times I could have made more time, for being part of that last, anguishing decision. But if you were going to go, I was going to be there with you, all the way.
And I ask your forgiveness, because the weight is so hard to carry. But old age and sickness are hard to carry, too, aren’t they.
For something so little, you are so mighty, Nik.
I imagine you always will be.