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Where We Once Were

Today marks three months since my sweet Rosie left this world. And although I haven’t cried in half that time, I still get hit with unexpected waves of… I don’t even know what to call it. I suppose it’s a mix of grief, love, sadness, longing, happiness and gratitude. Sometimes I smile and laugh thinking about how funny and sweet she was, other times I think I might cry because I miss her so much. 

Since her passing I’ve had a handful of dreams about her. The first few times I dreamt that she suddenly just reappeared as if nothing ever happened. And while I was overwhelmed with joy and so happy to have her back, I had the distinct feeling that I was going to have to keep her hidden, because I had been telling everybody that she died and I didn’t want people to suddenly see her alive and well and assume that I had faked her death in order to receive sympathy. Funny how the brain works.

On a recent hike I came across a rattlesnake on the edge of the trail, which I stopped and admired for a while. Later that night I dreamt that Rosie had joined me on that hike, and when we came across the rattlesnake she walked up to it, gently grabbed it with her mouth—right behind the head like a snake handler would to avoid getting bit—and moved the snake further from the trail so I could pass safely. 

Well, apparently that sentence was all it took… here come the tears again. 

It’s so strange witnessing the parts of me that still can’t grasp that she’s gone. For example, this has happened to me multiple times in which I’ve been out hiking on a hot day and, for the briefest of moments, experience pure panic thinking that I’ve left Rosie in the scorching-hot car this entire time. Just as quickly I snap out of it, but it’s a wild thing to experience such a disconnect. I suppose the responsibilities that used to be critically important—the life or death stuff—tend to stick around. 

During my current road trip I happen to be retracing a few of the places that Rosie and I visited together during our five-week road trip last year. They are filled with mostly happy memories, like when she was bravely trying to navigate her way along a steeply sloped creek’s edge and, practically in slow motion, lost her balance and toppled into the water (don’t worry, it was a short fall into a few feet of water and she was absolutely fine—I wouldn't have even let her attempt it if I felt it were unsafe). That memory still cracks me up. 

There are, of course, sad memories too. Lonely memories. Memories scattered across the map like tiny ghosts of where we once were.

I hung her dog collar from the rearview mirror in my van, ensuring that a small part of her is still out here on the road with me. I often reach up and touch it while thinking of her, or speaking to her, telling her how much I love her and miss her. Death is a great big unknown, and I honestly have no idea whether she can actually feel or hear the things I say.

But it sure feels nice believing that she does.

"When you are sorrowful, look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight." – Khalil Gibran