Life & Death, with Flowers in-Between

 Only a Fond Wish I find myself digging yet another grave in the cemetery of my heart.  A small one.  A pretty one, somewhere aside from the world's worries.  Somewhere that I can hold him safe, forever.   Endless kissu on the nose and head.  Never any bites or scratches. I hold you close in my dreams, and when I wake up, I slowly let go, letting my dreams turn to memories. It's been three days, and I still carry you in the pit of my stomach, wondering why our time was so brief, so dislocating and brutal, the full stop so abbreviated.  My eternal boy, ended. Spike came to me on August 26, 2016, during a very tumultuous time in my life.  My drinking was spiraling out of control, I was sprinting towards my degree and licensure in my field of choice, I was in an extremely toxic relationship and starting to break free, and my mental health was crumbling. The first night, I held him on my chest, this dehydrated, scrawny flea-ridden scrap of fur, a...

What do I say?  I wish I could have saved you?  I'm glad that you're no longer in pain?  I miss you? See you, Space Cowboy... "See you on the other side."  That's what I ended up saying to him. And then the frail weight of him was out of my arms, off to the needle.  I couldn't bear to be there with him, for the Dying.  Death... I stole him back from Dying once before, and these 4 years, 9 months, and 29 days with Spike were a blessing.  But here, in my fresh grief, it was not enough time . It's too fast.  Just one more minute, please . But it's time to hand him over, over and over in my brain, and when I start to panic, thinking about his small body in the cold darkness, awaiting immolation, I remember the red and black checked flannel I insisted be cremated with him, in some small part.  They said only a little piece could be cremated with him, and I said that was fine, because I knew the pet morticians, those with an even sadder job that mi...