Twenty Weeks Today

 He is everywhere, in my heart, my soul, my being.

In my house, in the forest. When I close my eyes, and when they are open.

His smile and funny bouncing gait…his head tilt…

I open the door and he is there, stretching as he did, always, before going out or coming in, like he was bowing to the door gods.

He is there when I shower and no head pushes the door open, no  one comes to check on me 25 times in 7 minutes. He is there in the clenching pain  when I write these words or look through album after album of days gone by – just vanished – did they even happen?

He is there when I recall the way the sunlight dappled the forest floor on that one walk we did, a few times a week, over by Lac Mahon, and it is so so vivid and I can see him so clearly, bouncing up ahead, so happy when he was free in the forest with me. 

He is there when I make coffee, beside the jar that held his Medicine Cookies, and there is no soft nose nudging my hand, no excited Rabbit eyes looking up for his little treasure. He would take that cookie off to his bed to enjoy it, he could only have one a day, so he was determined to make it last. I so loved everything about him.

He is everywhere in his absence.

 

 

They, whoever they are, tell me that  the souls of the dead go into the light.

So I take my cane and walk outside to let the sun stream through the trees, onto me and through me, in the desperate hope that somehow, he will be there, too.