There’s a first time for everything. Especially in grief. And I think those first times are the hardest.
The first time we went to our local Farmers’ Market without Stuart, I made myself go. I didn’t want to, but I had to. The alternative was to stay at home and sleep and cry. Again. Over and over again.
The first time we visited my mother-in-law hundreds of miles away, it was so strange to leave the crate at home. No packing up Stuart’s provisions and the bags of necessities – treats? Check. Brushes? Check. Towels in case it rains? Check. Did we pack enough food? Check.
I still look around when I come through the front door expecting to find him sleeping or Arrooo rooing at us, “Where have you been? Did I give you permission to leave? It’s about time you got back. I missed you by the way. Just in case you were wondering.”
Last week was the first time I noticed his spot at the top of the steps leading to the back yard. If you look closely, you can see the circle left by his water bowl. To the left of the rabbit. Indelibly etched into the cement.
I hope it lasts forever. Just like the incredible memories of an unforgettable friend. He’s gone. And I have to accept that. And I’m learning to accept that it’s much better to remember the good times, smile at his silliness, celebrate the love he shared, and thank doG he came into our lives at all. Even though he left way too soon. And way too abruptly.
‘Tis better to have loved and lost Stuart than to never have loved and been loved by him at all.
Sniglet loved him too. She must have felt his presence that day. In “his” spot.
Bless you my precious friend.