Grief isn’t to be explained
I scrolled back on my social media posts for some such reason and realised that I was preparing myself, for letting go of our rock. The dog with many names.
He originated, by my ex, as Sam and the Womp. He grew into Sam, Sammy, Bugs (he had Bugs Bunny Feet!) and the list went on. He smiled at it all. He just was.
As other posts would show we sent him on his way two weeks ago now and the house echoes without him. I left for a week and my love stepped into the quiet on her own. All our animals bumble around and Sammy is still really here, because the thing is, energy can’t be created or destroyed, it just is.
Today I picked up his ashes — it seemed right considering two weeks and all. Every time he went to the vet — for his diabetes check up — he would choose a toy on his way out. I chose one for him today.
I’m not sure why his loss has hit so hard but there you have it.
Grief isn’t to be explained.
This last weekend I sat with some of my oldest mates — whose grief is beyond comprehension. We ate cheese and huge grapes and batted off mosquitoes and spoke and cried and moved, ourselves, and each other, forward. She said ‘if I live to be 90 that’s a very long time without him and I need to find my next purpose’ and that’s really it, right.
We need to find a reason to get out of bed and move ourselves forward. Grief and all.
