Tonight, my face muscles feel tight, perhaps with unshed tears.
Looking at this photo, Mary reminds me that we both were outside with Tina when this photo was taken, separated from Sparkey by the glass. Now we are separated by the veil which divides the world of the living from that of the dead. But as Sweet Honey in the Rock once sang, "The dead are not under the earth; they are in the waving grass, they are in the rushing stream....."
Each day, each hour presents a new moment to experience in a new way. A smile, a tear, a wave of sadness, a moment of forgetting, another moment of remembrance. It is a sure sign that the process is under way, unimpeded.
Do I think it strange to not have cried for two days? Does this pall over my face and around my countenance mean that I'm holding back? Or is it just what I'm supposed to do? I've been here before, this grieving place, and it's as unpredictable as the New England weather.
The evening candle burns bright on Sparkey's grave, and I'll go outside and blow it out when I finish writing. It's my way of ritualistically acknowledging him, of remembering, and then saying goodnight as I move toward the dream world where I hope to catch a glimpse of my sweet boy. Some people might ask why I grieve so for this animal, this four-legged, and I can only answer that those who have known this kind of love would never have to ask such a question.
The tears come now in a sob, and I just send him love and thanks for his unconditional loyalty. Perhaps now these facial muscles will relax and transform into smiles of joy for his soul's beautiful and well-deserved freedom.