Dear Departed

My dog departed recently. About two and half weeks ago. She was 14 years, 3 months young—to the day.

The following evening, I was tutoring a student—a third grader. Sometimes I bring over “Finish the Picture” prompts for them to fashion a partially drawn image into whatever they’d like. 

This student drew my dog, Lady, as an angel.

She still doesn’t know she passed.

After students finish the picture, they write a story about it. (Minor detail: this particular prompt contained a spider in one of its spaces.) Busied with writing, she encouraged me to write a story of my own.

So I played along, penning about Lady going to Heaven and meeting my childhood dogs: Pepe, Patches, and Sweetie. They’d prepared a gift for her—a spider in which they could all occupy any time they’d like to come and visit me. 

A spider—two legs for each of them!

I tucked the story in my briefcase and carried on.

Grief has been heavy. Earlier today, I went up to the skydeck—it’s beautiful here in the mountains. Soaking up the sun while journaling has been necessary therapy.

I got to thinking about Heaven while I sat up there. The bedtime story Heaven. The one I don’t really believe exists in the traditional sense.

But I thought about who might be there to greet me. Some are still alive—I was just imagining them because they’d be in my heaven. 

And I thought about Lady. And Pepe, and Patches, and Sweetie. And just then, a furry little spider crawled out from the deck beneath me, and I smiled as it scurried slowly across the panels of wood. 

Scurry. Stop. Scurry. Stop. Scurry.

And finally, slowly dip below the deck.

Slowly, steady, my heart resets.