Diagonals of grief. This morning, I was fixing the blanket in Dexter’s empty crate because Sam had got in last night, dug it up and slept there for a bit while I was on my computer. As I leaned in to put the blanket back in place, I was overcome with a wave of grief. I got in (my dogs’ crates are big enough that I can fit), curled up and cried there for a bit, looking up at all the lines in the ceiling of that space where Dexter spent so much time. I told a friend the other day, “As far as I can tell, grief doesn’t end, it just transforms over time, but will always live with you. That tender, raw spot is permanent.”
Diagonals holding memories. These boards hold so much to remember — the program from my grandma’s funeral, my name tag from the last Open Heart retreat, pictures of my nieces when they were younger, ticket stubs from concerts and roller derby matches, polaroids of the day we adopted Obi and then Dexter, family pictures of the three and four of us together, a dried rose bloom from the plant at my parents’ house in Sublimity, pictures of a friend’s family back when they were only three, cards and postcards, the business card of the woman who did both my tattoos, my schedule from Career Day when I was in high school (April 4, 1986 — I signed up for sessions on Modeling, Floral Design, Entertainment, and Business Management).