The Passage Of Time

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With the passage of time come memories and recollections.

Every year in mid-May, the tree that hangs over one corner of my patio bursts into tiny white blooms. The heady scent perfumes the air. Butterflies and bees hover over the flowers.

I sit outside and breathe in the scent. It’s so incredibly sweet and fragrant. In a week or so the blooms will fade. Tiny bits of the blooms will fall and scatter all over the patio.

It reminds me that for everything, there is a season. Life is precious and often far too short. But seasons pass on by, I know. To the next one. Winter, spring, summer, or fall, Carole King would sing in her song “You’ve Got A Friend.” I always loved that song.

What Grief Is:

Grief is a wide yawning hole. You stand at the precipice and look down into a bottomless pit of sorrow. And then, unable to keep your balance, you fall in.

You swim in it until you’re so tired your arms grow weary. Sometimes you wonder if you should just give in and stop fighting the tide.

The worst part is that you have no choice in the matter. Life can take what is most precious to you. And suddenly you’re left to swim in a cold, dark place that at times threatens to pull you under.

It can happen in an instant. You can be happy, and life is normal, until it isn’t normal anymore.

Yet I smell the heavenly scent of the white blooms on the tree that I enjoy every year, and I feel no joy.

I think of my sweet Abi, of her bigger-than-life personality, and I can hardly bear it.

Taking Her Photo:

On the last day of Abi’s life, I took two photos. I hesitated before I took them. I didn’t want to remember her in pain. But I couldn’t stop myself. I photograph life, and what happened is part of life.

It is a desperately sad period that I won’t want to remember. But it is part of my story. It is Abi’s story.

I couldn’t let her go without recording her alive before the vet arrived at my door to help her cross the Rainbow Bridge.

She was sick and weak. Her left paw was wrapped in a bandage due to the intravenous fluids she’d been getting. It was the place they put the needle in.

There are all those firsts to face. And then the passage of time.

The first time I took photos of the patio was after Abi died. First time I mopped the floor after Abi died. The first time I went out after Abi died.

Surely the firsts won’t last too long. Or spring into my mind as a reminder of my loss for too much longer.

I think back weeks ago to when she started wetting my bed. The urine was colorless, like water. It had no odor. I remember finding that so odd. But I had a bit of a premonition then, I think.

Watching Charlie Closely Now:

I watch Charlie, and if he exhibits any strange behaviors or changes in habit, it strikes fear in me. Then I tell myself that he is grieving too. But the mama in me is on high alert.

This morning I finally stripped my bed because I couldn’t bear to do it before. It was where Abi slept. I wore the same clothing for two days because I’d held my baby while she died with those clothes on.

Then my daughter came yesterday to take me to lunch, and I reached into my closet for something else to wear.

I hate that every time you come here, you end up reading about my sadness. I’m sorry for that. Writing is how I’ve always made sense of things. How I’ve come to terms with things.

I know they say that time heals all wounds. That the passing of time is balm for the soul.

I know that the odds are that I will feel joy again. That I will smile and laugh again with the passage of time.

I just don’t know when that will be.