I feel you curled against my back.
I stroke your warm body.
I gaze into your soft brown eyes,
that gaze lovingly back to me.
I wonder whose ashes are in the box:
Conspiracy theories.
Painful realities ring with the alarm clock,
and my contentment turns to ashes.
How strange
that the lack of something
weighs more greatly
than its presence.
I had some errands to do,
and it’s always so hard to leave you
after I’ve come home,
so I went to the library,
and the grocery store,
and then to fold my mother’s laundry.
When I pulled into the garage,
he told me you were in trouble,
I rushed to see you.
You looked at me with anguish in your eyes,
your belly hugely distended. I told you to come,
you went straight to the car, because the car is always good.
I raced you to the vet, my hand on your shoulder,
knowing.
I sat on the exam room floor with you
feeling your racing pulse and your icy breath.
I held you as you died.
Thirty minutes of pointless errands
when I could have been with you,
thirty minutes less pain you would have endured,
thirty minutes I will not get back, but will always regret.
I’m thankful for the fifteen minutes I had to hold you.
I’m so sorry for your anguish in my arms.
.
.
.
My heart dog OJ died of gastric torsion on Friday. He was fine at lunch. Dead at 5:00. We don’t know how it happened after 15.5 years, but standard poodles are deep chested dogs that can be prone to bloat, though it’s not in his line. I had hoped he’d go in his sleep, not suffering so much, but it was easy to request the shot to save him from his agony, though by then it was likely only moments of ease.
And so I wake on the first morning
without my heart dog.
No thumping tail to greet me
No clicking nails tattooing down the hall.
No urgent woof encouraging me
No stinky kisses
to comfort me aching.
No rolling for a belly rub
with contended sighs and eyes blinking
nonchalantly, as if you were surprised
to find my hand caressing you.
No need to put my purse up high,
or guard food on the counters.
No rattling as you did dishwasher pre-wash.
No.
Only bits of fluff, still hiding in corners
after your last hair cut,
a hundred photos,
and a million memories of a sweet-tempered,
loving heart that beat with mine.
.
.
.
Oh, how I miss my boy today.
Dad came for a visit
and we discussed laundry soap
in my dream.
He didn’t ask about Mom,
and I didn’t tell him.
So many questions I’ve wondered
Who was your first love?
Why did you make this decision?
What do you wish?
What have you learned?
What do you advise?
But you have always said,
each person takes his own journey,
what you learned was for you alone,
and so you’ve kept your secrets,
and soon I will be asking questions
to the wind.
Turning pages in the address book
cross a line across another entry.
Turning pages
studying the names crossed out
A memorial of friends and family gone
Greetings sent in murmured prayers
to rest in peace.
Today you would be 101
Three months gone
Grief still takes me by surprise
a slice of pain hidden in the guise
of a song, or a day, or a vision.
I still see your sparkling eyes,
I hear your voice saying my name,
You became a hundred and one
times a hundred and one memories
and grief still weeps off each one.
Two months
Sixty-one days
Sixty-one memories of your smile
Sixty-one wishes for your stories
Two mysterious photographs
Too many days
without you.
.
.
RIPDaddy
Last week a genealogist doing a one name study of Duguay found my dad’s obituary here. After getting a bit of basic information that could connect into his database, he sent me Dad’s family line back to 1620 in Burgundy, France. I then did a little additional research. Dad would have been intrigued, especially to know that at 1672 we share a common ancestor with some famous people: Hillary Clinton (American politician), Tom Mulcair (Canadian politician), Anne Hébert (Canadian author and poet).
It has been
one
month
since you slipped gently from this life.
How strange
not to have kissed your cheek
for 31 days.
I still murmur that I love you
and follow your instructions
and can’t believe
you’re gone.
Shawn L. Bird 