I hear the music of crickets.
I feel the warm fur of
Sweetie Pie on my arms
and legs as I write at my computer. Seeing Simba sitting in front of me lends an inner sense of security.
Yet, something's missing. Ever since you left, the house has been silent and still in a way I never felt before. Like a cave without light, sound, water or bats. Empty from top to bottom, side-to-side.
The house feels vapid without you, Suzy. How do other people adjust to the loss of someone intrinsic to their life? Someone who was more like an appendage than an accessory? If these walls could talk, they would tell you how I float around like a ghost without a past. How I look for my shadow and never see her. How I anticipate your golden fur 'round every corner only to see dust balls and cobwebs that I've been too lethargic to clean.
Such is life. Sweetie Pie's purrs help as does Simba's steady breathing. But the energy of greetings, meetings, walks, talks, travel, tennis balls, frisbees, making new friends in the park and hanging out together for no reason at all are gone--with no replacements. I trudge on. The days grow shorter with the onset of autumn, yet my heart grows weary from carrying memories of our past.
Perhaps, in time, the two roads will converge, and my journey will be lighter, again.
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