February 20, 2010
Four o’ clock in the morning and the snow covered ground glows bright, illuminating like a nightlight. Everything is silhouetted clearly in this strange, reverse form of day. Having given up on sleep about an hour ago, I find myself staring out the window at the pasture, envisioning things only my mind can see. There’s a white dog glowing in the darkness, head up and prancing with a purpose, with ears that bounce up and down. I smile at the thought of Cain, but at the same time that familiar lump starts to grow in the back of my throat.
Lately I’ve been stuck inside my head revisiting decisions that I made. I have been carefully guarding myself from these thoughts, but this morning they finally break through and rain down on me. For as much as I’ve moved forward, they have kept me glued in place for the last few days. Grief has been a tricky thing, and its unwelcome visit has managed to wiggle its way into my space once again; waiting silently for me to chase it away.
I feel like I’ve been working on a large puzzle, and each day represents a new piece. It’s coming together slowly. Sometimes the pieces fit perfectly; sometimes they don’t. I wish I could force them into place, but know that I can’t as I continue to borrow from time. A friend told me that crying is healing and I let myself cry, then take a deep breath and exhale.
I’ve made a pact with myself that for every time I feel sad, I need to remember two things that make me happy. Watching out the window, my mind still sees Cain trotting towards me flashing that great big bully grin, and woofing that muffled bark. Before the night gives way to day, I smile.