Last night, Dexter and I played with his baby monkey until he fell asleep. Then I sat with him, his front feet pressed against my leg, the heat of his body warming me, the sound of his breath, the sound of our breath together, in and out, in and out. It was the purest of moments, sweet and quiet and joyful. The only reminders of his cancer were his runny eye and my sadness.
As always, in these moments when we are together and in love and nothing is wrong, I remind myself to just be there, to let go of panic and fear and grief, not to force those feelings away but to let them be with me, and even as I let them rest to also not cling or get attached, let those feelings leave when they are ready to go, allow them to dissolve.
And yet, I can’t help wishing that this sweet good-bying would go on forever, the two of us here together like this.
To live in this world
you must be able
to do three things:
to love what is mortal;
to hold it
against your bones knowing
your own life depends on it;
and, when the time comes to let it go,
to let it go.