The death of a human I loved creates, for me, a timeline - a division in the flow of life: Before, and After. I find myself thinking "Harold won't know that we finally got enough rain," or, "...he won't know that his dog is gone now."
Of course, I know, this is elemental. It just always happens to me upon a death. It lasts forever - I'm still thinking about Daddo, who died in 1990, and how he would never know about my grandchildren, or my move to Huntsville, and so forth.
It's been a week today since Harold died at the Huntsville Hospital ICU. For me it's been a week of grief and of effort to care for the things he loved: Diamond, his garden, and his orchids. Diamond went to her new home yesterday and I pray for her continued good health and joyful spirit.
As I hoped, the passage of nearly a week has helped me, but of course I still feel Harold's absence very sharply sometimes. My mom reminded me that his life, as he shared it with me, was a gift and that he most likely found my life a gift to him. I hope so.
What do the dead know?
Photo is Diamond with my Honey. In the five days we kept Diamond, they played together for hours each day, wearing each other out completely. I will say that I have gained a completely new appreciation for pit bulls; or maybe Diamond was just an exemplary representative of her breed. She was happy, friendly, joyous, sweet and forgiving. She will be an outstanding companion if her owner loves her as we do.
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