It's The Little Things

Dear Pepsi,

Your memory trails me like a secret shadow. I go about my daily life, yet it feels half hearted no matter how much I apply myself to the tasks at hand. Welcome to my three quarter existence. Yesterday I stripped the bed after Aunt Diane left for Austin, stuffed the dirty sheets in the washer and and pulled out fresh ones from the linen closet. There were two flat sheets and one fitted. I knew one of the flat sheets was the one I covered the duvet cover with so guests wouldn't lay on a bed of dog hair. After all, it was really your room and bed, which you grudgingly (unwillingly) shared when guests visited. The flat sheet is the same color as the duvet and sheet set, with a line of pulled threads and holes from you pulling the covers back and unmaking the bed. I unfolded the flat sheets to figure out which one went inside and which one to spread over the duvet since occasionally Pearl or Pandy lay on the bed and stare out at the backyard. I made the bed and then stood in the room and sobbed. I never have to make the bed several times a day anymore as I did with you. I called your dad, mumbling through my tears as he silently listened on the other end three thousand miles away. 

The two sisters

On the outside I look my normal self. Inside is quite another story. My perspective has changed, and while that is not necessarily a bad thing, I can get derailed into grief and longing on the turn of a dime. It's the little things Pepsi, not seeing you at the foot of the stairs intently looking out the front door, you not being underfoot while I eat breakfast, or being woken up each night when you climb in my bed. The accumulation of memories stack into multiple piles. Pearl and I bump into them and though it happens several times a day, we lock eyes as if we are still baffled by the fact you are not here.  Neither she or Pandy pick up the toys scattered on the floor - the rope toy, blue ball and knotted white sock just lay there unless I can entice them to play. No tug of war, interactive play or fetch. Pandy might be a taker but Pearl isn't having it. There doesn't seem to be much fun left in her without you. I bought them new squeaky toys the other day and they were interested for about 30 minutes. They joined the toy collection that collects dust on the floor unless a visitor comes and Pearl does her retrieving thing.  You would have been all over that squeaking dog and cow, that's for sure. 

When Aunt Diane was here last week we spoke of you often, laughing about your one of a kind ways.  It was her first time coming to Portland without you here to greet her. The past year has been a litany of loss - Diane's dad, my mom, Frank and you. No one lives forever she said. My head knows that but my heart is still reeling. For ten years I whispered over and over, begging you not to leave and stay with me forever. It was our inside joke but not really funny. I sit at the tea house typing these words as tears roll down my cheeks. I have no shame when it comes to my grief for you. They didn't know you and they sure don't know me. Last week a student I hadn't seen in a while expressed his condolences and before I could say thank you the waterworks began. The surface of my emotional life is a thin, translucent powder, barely concealing the depth of my sadness. When you got sick I kept going, maintained my responsibilities as best I could, and while I eliminated what I called the unessential, I didn't stop. In retrospect I was dazed, confused, angry, and exhausted. I wish I had stopped Peps, and not let one thing compete with the time I had with you, not even a little bit. Lesson learned baby girl, lesson learned. 

The days are getting longer. Spring teased us with warmer temperatures and then dumped a foot of snow reminding us how unpredictable life is. Pearl and I tread lightly in our three quarter life, exchanging knowing glances as we make the most of what we have, which is a lot. Pandy was rescued from such a tenuous life she is always waiting for the other shoe to drop anyway. I walk them around the neighborhood, chatting as we traverse the streets. I let them off leash in the various parks to run and discover smells. I open the door and let them loose to play out front on our dead end street. I chuckle and think how I could never do that with you, my runner and explorer of every backyard in the street who thought call back was not in your repertoire. It is the little things, in a myriad of ways, that map the territory of loss and grief. The space in between you being here and then gone is where I linger. I am not sure it is an actual space but for now it is where I reside, bumping into the ever mounting stacks of memories. Time marches on, dragging me kicking and screaming; however, I remain in lockstep with you baby girl. And here is what I know for sure Peps, the forever I asked of you is and will always exist for us. However deep loss is, love is deeper.

Love you darling girl,

Mom