Sorrow is a peculiar thing. It comes and goes. It recedes from your consciousness long enough for you to believe it has packed its lonely bags and left town. Then, on a bright Summery morning, you open a door, and there it is again: full force, barging into your life with all its baggage.
Perhaps not all humans know the sadness I feel now. Perhaps only those who have ever loved a dog, another animal, or a human being know the sadness of losing the loved one. Maybe there are people who have never loved anyone. But those people are the saddest of all, because it means they have never experienced true joy, either. Dr. C.M. Parkes once said:” The pain of Grief is as much a part of life as the joy of love; it is perhaps the price we pay for love; the cost of commitment.”
Today I am grieving. I miss my Dog. I want to see Misha walking around the back yard that I see from my desk. The empty yard that holds nothing for me.
I want to smell his fur as I burrow my face in it. I want to rub his velvet-soft ears. I want to get a quick appreciative lick on the face. I want to “high five” him and feel his huge paw press into my hand as he awaits a biscuit.
I received a phone call from the Animal Hospital. They informed me that Misha’s ashes are ready to be picked up. So, I will go and bring home the container. The earthly remains of my sweet Boy.
Sorrow is individual. Some people hide it in a closet. Some people lock it up and pretend it isn’t there. As it bangs and yells and struggles to get out, they put larger ear plugs in and bigger blinders on. They won’t allow it entrance. Some people try to ignore it forever.And some people welcome it into their parlor, give it sustenance, and unpack its bags. They allow it to stay as long as it wants. However it is treated, Sorrow almost always finds a way into the minds and hearts it seeks.
Sorrow has found me. I am caught in its terrible embrace. It is a most unwelcome guest, and I know that I am responsible for sending out the invitation long ago. The commitment of loving put the stamp on that invitation. I have no choice but to be the hostess until its awful stay is over. Sorrow is a peculiar thing.