To: The Newly Deceased

March 18: a day supposedly celebrated in remembrance of a dyslexic's victory over me at a word game. A day of shattered pride, a day of triumph. Even after a year, its subtleties are still remembered. Even after connections are severed, the reason to mock re-opens a passage back to old times. 

Supposedly, a day of celebration-- supposedly. 

Then comes the final tick of an old terrier's clock. Breathing its last on a Saturday afternoon, there it lay by the glass doors eyeing the sky, dreaming of running again. Unbothersome as it had always been, so it left, its life carried away by the air, inconveniencing none. A perfect body, no longer warm. 

Death, and nothing else follows. Is life so easily gone? If I could lie down and breathe, dampening the air with the warmth of my life upon each exhalation, would I also float away like the particles lilting in the atmosphere? Off we go, ascending. 

Do I see myself in its place? Does a lifeless body revolt me? Am I reminded of the fragility of my own body? Am I impure, or is it pure? Does death not reflect a certain aesthetic perfection? Certainly, I should be concerned with these thoughts at 3:30AM.

I had hoped that I would be able to say my final goodbye during the first summer I will have spent there, after three years of false hopes. Hope alone does not sustain life and faith isn't enough to keep the world at bay. To believe is to be let down and to be optimistic is to live blind. And so we walk out of each other's lives without strolling down the tree-lined lane in summer, having fun. 

I do not weep because you have been released from your suffering. 

Rest in peace. May the fairest wild flower blossom in your place, reminding us of your fur as white as snow. When Spring comes, I will be there to see you all the same. I will talk to you and press my hand upon your back like I have always done, asking "did you miss me?" because I miss you, terribly.