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Life (without Him)


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 mine, would know that I wanted him enshrouded in that thick flannel, for the cold nights awaiting his turn to be free.

No more body full of pain.  No more small feet, unsteady upon near the end.  No more single licorice bean.
My little love is dead.  Deceased.  Decedent.  I am bereaved.  The grief-stricken.  This is not right.
I should be on the other side.

But I await his return of Cremated Remains, and I wonder if they will look like Ashes or Cremains, or small bone shards, something raw and earthy and savage, like he was.
The warm weight of him every moment I was able to cuddle him, to embrace him before the moment had passed and he was growling and yowling at me again, pressing a single clawed paw against my face to show that his tolerance was Over.  The paw I held as we fell asleep together, many lonely nights.

The last moment, seeing the lime green catheter in his tiny arm.  So light, even as he protested the sedation.  
My sweet and sour Spike.  I love you.
Forever.

08.13.2016 - 06.10.2021

The sky opens up.  
The rain pours, like my tears, streaming and pooling, eddying with anger, ultimately serving no purpose but to cleanse, and refresh, and wash anew the world for the next phase.  The Cleansing.
The sky breaks open and roars.  My heart knows that feeling, and embraces it. 

And then, it is done.  The storm is gone, whished away to the next front.
The Winds of Misfortune blow.  The Wheel of Fortune turns.  I must get through this.
No way out but through.

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