That stage of grief where you become aware, and horrified, that its starting to feel normal that your lost one is not around. When for a week or a month or a year or three, because that is all you can stand before you crumple into the darkest of despairs, you rail against it with more energy than youve ever thought possible to give a definitely useless thing, your heart flailing desperately against the damned unidirectionality of time like a fish flailing against the wooden planks of a dock. That is where I am, the morning before she is cremated. And I thought I would find an offering to send to Artemis with the dog, in the fire, but Starry is the best offering I could give her. Goddess whose glowing moonlight inspired me to carry on a thousand times past defeat and despair, tomorrow morning, please take this beautiful girl who did your work all those years, who licked the smell of my rapist off my face a dozen times, who shoved her nose under my heartbroken back to nudge me up when the baby in the next room cried for me, who ran and ran and ran through the woods with happy innocents around her, and who fiercely defended us from anyone who got close enough to look in through our windows. She is a good dog, and I send her back to you so, so loved.
Posted on: Fri, 14 Nov 2014 01:39:57 +0000
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