Missing you always

It always hits you. Again and again it hits you, the sense of loss.

You do things--wake up, fix the trash, come home--and remember how it used to be when she was there, your baby, your baby.

How terribly empty life has been since she died, how terribly ugly it has been.

Every day is a reminder of what you've lost and what will never be again.

The desolation is immense, seemingly endless.

There is no mercy in surviving.

"Say Goodbye": A poem for Vixen, of Vixen, seven months after her death

How do you say goodbye? When do you do so?

Do you say it when your love is buried,

unable to hear, cremated, or earlier, too weak,

maybe too delirious to hear?

Perhaps you say it when you know death is real: it is inevitable,

and goodbye must be said—if only to unhearing ears,

as sight and hearing and understanding are gone.

Will your love understand your touch,

the pain throbbing through your fingers and the unseen tears?

Will your love comfort you when your love knows only pain?

How do you say goodbye?

How can you?

Life suddenly is nothing, meaning only life is gone

or will be, when your own hearing and seeing and your breath are gone.

How do you say goodbye

to your love who is to die?

How do you say it when goodbye offers you no comfort,

just the realization:

your life, your love, is dead.

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That lingering sense of loss

The sense of loss is everywhere.

I feel it everyday, from the moment I wake up. I start down the stairs expecting to hear Vixen's footsteps, to see her welcoming me. I do repairs and I look to where she used to sleep; I keep taking care not to disturb her, but she's no longer there. I do some hammering, expecting her to bark, or to run where I am and to look on. There is always that expectation of her being there--and always that painful realization she is not. I leave the dried urine outside alone; the sun and rain will eventually dry and wash the smell away.


For years, everything I did at home and away was with thought of my babies, of Boobie, Almond, and Vixen. These past four years everything revolved around Vixen. This overbearing emptiness continues. I keep looking for her, watching for her, listening for her, waiting for her, as if somehow she'll be there.

What do I do without my dearest baby?

The days have no meaning now.

Living without you

My dearest Vixen,

More than a day has passed since you died, and this world has become unbearable without you. I wake up waiting to hear your footsteps, only to find silence. I look to where you used to sleep, knowing I will never see you there again. I come home knowing you will never be there again to welcome me. I hear the rain knowing you will never again shake upon its sound, terrified of thunder. All the cares and worries that concerned you, all gone now, save for the memory of what once was.

When Boobie died, I had you and Almond for comfort. When Almond died, I had you. Now that you're gone, I have nothing. How many times have I asked you, in the silence of our hearts, not to leave me? How many times have I asked the fates or whoever is in charge of the universe to let me go first? The time for your feeding comes: you are not there.

Of course my surviving you is better for you. Who else would take care of you? The thought makes the pain no less. There is this awareness of your absence everywhere at home, even outside.

You are gone, and I can hardly bear it.

I walked around early tonight, almost in a daze, but not quite. For the first time in more than four years, I had a drink. I had three--J&B, straight up. I drank to your life. I thanked you for all that you were and always will be to me. I drank to following you soon.