It’s hard to believe it ‘s been one month since you died.
I am still not used to waking and not having to immediately go outside, or not needing to hurry home so you can pee. I don’t spend much time outside in the yard anymore. Last week I mowed the yard and saw the wind had blown down a bunch of limbs. How many days had they been there?
I’m still not used to you not being there to share my dinner, or to clean up the floor when I spill things. I’ve actually had to throw cat food away. That never used to happen.
I look for you to be in the floor nearby. I still expect for you to greet me when I come home.
Things have gotten better. I’ve moved your collar and leash out of the living room, and I finally emptied the cookie jar.
But I find myself crying at the most unpredictable times. Like one morning as I was headed out the door to work and I automatically said good-bye to you, then stopped myself once I realized what I’d done. Or the time I burst into tears as I mowed the yard because I hadn’t been in that part of the yard since the last time I’d mowed, and I remembered it was because you aren’t here to check the perimeter.
Now June Buggie is also dying, and I feel spent. Grief can be so tiring, you know.
I am focusing on remembering your joyful spirit. I look at the memory box our friend Jayne sent me, and at the mug with your photo sent by Eripan, and I smile.
But at this moment, baby, I miss you more than you could ever know.