Nothing helps grief but crying.

In a dream I saw priests sprinkling holy water on our land; land where our house was built.

The next day I woke up, slowly and then all at once, when I heard my grandmother calling me to attend to my dog Daisy. I stretched and cracked my body, then got up. I noticed that my dog was sleeping in an awkward position that wasn’t how she would normally sleep. I bent down to reach over and rub her belly, when I noticed that she wasn’t breathing. No up and down rhythm, she didn’t look up to acknowledge me. Then, as the truth of the situation dawned on me, I screamed and told my grandmother that Daisy was not breathing. I reached down again to touch her head, then her neck, and concluded that she was already gone.

Gone, not like a wandering kind of gone, but physically gone forever.

It was strange, the progression of Daisy being a creature I knew to be warm, jovial, sweet, and accommodating to the Daisy that is cold, still, lifeless, unbreathing. I am so heartbroken that I can’t place it anywhere, can’t store it for posterity, can’t reserve it for when I’m strong enough to handle grief.

Last Friday, the day my one true pal died, I lurked in thin air and ceased to exist as a human being with a to-do list to tick off and a schedule to adhere to. I did go to school, for I feared I might die of sadness at home, with the knowledge that Daisy’s body was just outside, ready to go back to earth.

When I got home that afternoon, I buried Daisy knee-deep in the ground just outside my room. When I carried her body toward the grave, I realized it wasn’t the Daisy I knew and loved–like a soul to the body, body to the soul. I will never forget her warmth, but also the coldness that lingered all over her as I said my last goodbye to the decaying, corporeal body.

Thank you and night night, cooch. <3 ♦