Tomorrow it will be four weeks since Molly. That should be possessive: Molly's _____. But I'm having trouble putting a word there this morning.
Yesterday Pure Luck shared a conversation with a co-worker, a person whose German Shepherd had a miraculous arthritis recovery after steroid shots. Of all the things we tried, that was never one of them, not in the array of suggestions from our vets, and after hearing the story, we both felt like we had killed her.
That's a hard enough thing to feel when you're together and working through it, but that much harder when you're far apart geographically.
On Friday I took Sam to one of our favorite places, Posh Neighboring Town Nature Preserve, the first time I've gone alone with him to walk off-leash since Molly. I avoided places that might hurt, sticking to walks in the neighborhood with Sam, especially after a tearful walk around Mackworth Island on Snowman's brief visit home two weeks ago. But Pure Luck pointed out, rightly, that Sam deserved better, and Friday I made up my mind to take him. He's been pretty serious, since Molly. I wanted to see him run.
We followed the red trail and he bounded ahead of me down a hill and up again, and we turned off on the blue trail and plowed our way through snow, and we wound around back and forth until my head got so sweaty that taking my hat off became worse rather than better.
And at each turning, at each crossroads, at each landmark, I felt Molly. Here she liked to lie down in the water and cool off. Here she got so excited the first time we took the white trail with the children. Here she got #1 Son and me back on the orange trail when we went the wrong way. Here I took a picture of Molly and Sam together in last winter's snow.
This is hard, walking the grief trail, where some of the blazes feel reliable and expected, while others lead to tender places we would rather not visit, yet must.