because you taught us how to be

talk soon, bug

sunshine boy, taken on 35mm film in 2021

Hi sweet boy,

A month ago today I don’t remember what the weather was doing but I do remember that I was writing about you, the tone of my words heavy with a grief that has continued to burrow itself into my chest ever since we were reminded that your time here was limited.

A month ago today I don’t remember what I was wearing but I do remember you being brave for us and us being brave for you as we held you and can you believe I didn’t cry when you looked back at me one last time? And you know me, I am a crying machine, I just know that sometimes it’s hard for you to understand what’s happening when my emotions bubble over onto everything so instead I told them to hold off long enough for us to steady our breaths and calm our nerves. Long enough for us to remind you that we were here and that you didn’t have to try so hard anymore.

That we’ll be ok because you taught us how to be.

A month ago today I don’t remember if I ate breakfast or not but I do remember how impossible it felt to be in our home without you. How we fled to the lake that you loved with the clear water and the best sticks. How we yelled when we dunked our heads and cried as we pictured you swimming like a hippo, lips flapping against the surface. How I picked a flower that we would eventually press into a framed photo of the three of us, taken the day after Adam and I got married.

A month ago today I don’t remember how I got out of the car and walked into the emergency vet after Adam shook his head and I knew what was about to happen but I was greedy and wanted more time on top of the almost two years we were told we wouldn’t have. And my gosh, can you believe all that we fit into those two years? So many naps on human beds, leisurely walks, swims, avoiding of dogs, hiding from strangers, visits with family, time with your best (and only) friend Sezie, desert romps, and cozy evenings at home where we would get down on the floor and play or doze on the heated mat.

A month ago today I don’t remember how much of our dinner we ate or when we eventually climbed into bed but I do remember holding your favorite hippo-toy as I looked into the shadows of where you used to sleep, the emptiness loud and angry as it pressed up against my chest and throat, threatening more tears.

And oh how the tears came. In fact, I’m crying right now. Big sloppy tears that mingle with the snot now dripping from my nose. But that’s just it, bug. I have to cry because it’s messy and awful and yet having it any other way would mean not having you, and having you has been the biggest and greatest joy of our lives.

And it will continue to be as we hang up pictures of you and us throughout our home. As I doodle and tell stories about Kona the Hippo. As we re-watch videos of you playing in the snow or swimming in the lake or showing affection in the unusual and wonderful and novel ways that only you could.

We’ll be ok because you taught us how to be, sweet boy. You did that.

And so, before I close out this particular letter to you, let me do this: kiss your wet nose, pet that soft spot behind your ears, put on your collar and watch as you wiggle around in excitement, sprinting toward the door so we can head out on an unexpected afternoon walk, where I promise to stop at all the best smelling spots and avoid every dog and human. Oh, and don’t worry, Adam is cooking you fresh chicken as we speak! He’ll have it ready for you when you get home.

Talk soon, bug.
I love you to all the universes and back.

PS. Remember when we thought you had died after getting hit by that big awful truck, but somehow you didn’t? Somehow you walked again. Ran again. Swam again. Played again. Pooped again! And I can’t believe we were lucky enough to adventure alongside you for as long as we did, just the three of us goofballs.