Another Legacy, 2.4

Years later, when Kiana reflected on her second year at uni, she often thought that, if she’d known what was going to happen that year, she would have dropped out, gone home, and spent every free moment with Case and Ira. For this was the year when Case and Ira died. But that happened later in the year, and the year began with the biggest stress being what she put on herself as a star athlete.

Now and then, she remembered how much a part of her young life death had been. When the Romance Festival returned to the city, she felt nostalgic for the last time she’d gone, with Aadhya, and she imagined Aadhya calling her.

With that imagining, she felt Aadhya with her, and then she felt Knox, and all her other elder friends who’d passed, and even the warm whispers of her birth mom and dad, and maybe, after all, death wasn’t this big scary thing, but was just something that is part of life, and those you’ve known and loved who’ve died, maybe they aren’t totally gone, for you can still feel them inside.

This became her secret, her private source of joy and comfort, and when she pushed herself too hard and her sports injury returned, and she sometimes doubted if she could continue, she drew upon that secret feeling she carried inside of companionship with all those she’d loved who’d passed. It didn’t erase the pain of tendonitis, but it made the sensation of pain feel a little less lonely.

The companionship of her roommates helped, too. Their little rental became a peaceful place for study, or at least that’s how Kiki experienced it.

The roommates, themselves, developed all sorts of other distractions from study which Kiki never really found out about, being, as she was, always either studying, training, or at practice.

And then, during finals week, the news came during the night. Case had died. Her roommate took the phone message and didn’t wake her up–why disturb her sleep? He’d still be dead when she woke up. But during the night, Ira passed, too. Kiki found two notes for her when she woke up.

It wasn’t supposed to happen. It couldn’t have happened. It couldn’t be real, right? Not both of them. The same night? It felt like losing her birth mom and dad all over again.

She clung to that thought. It was like losing them all over again. She’d survived that. In fact, life had turned out great. That’s how she got to be with Case and Ira, that’s how she came to be who she was now. OK. She’d survived that, and she’d just been a baby. She could survive this, now that she was older and knew so much more about life. She knew about grief. She was an expert in this. She could handle it. She could move on. In fact, moving on was probably the best thing. Finals were coming up, and she had to study, and she couldn’t miss class, and they had some big games soon. She would just get on with it. She would be OK.

And jogging to class on a rainy spring morning, she actually felt better than OK. She felt a little bit of joy. Death and life aren’t that different, and Case and Ira were tucked safe inside of her.

She held that thought all day, and when, returning from class, she ran into Lea Akins, her art center friend, who’d stopped by to make sure that Kiki was OK, it was Kiki who comforted her friend, not the other way around.

“Don’t be sad, Lea,” she said. “Death’s not, like, the End, the end. It’s more like, a transition. Something not quite corporeal, but it doesn’t mean, like, not-being.”

“But they’re gone,” Lea said. “You’re like, twice-orphaned.”

“That just means I have experience handling this,” Kiki said, and she almost had Lea believing her.

Her roommates were easier to persuade.

“Your parents were so cool,” they said, remembering their visit over the break. “They were like these cool hippie friends, so into each other, so proud of you.”

“Yeah,” Kiki said, “they really contributed to who I am now. They’ll always be here because they’re such a part of me.”

“Man, you’re really deep,” said the roomies.

But then it would sneak up on her.

Case and Ira died, while she was away. She wouldn’t be able to come home to them over the next break. They wouldn’t come to see her play in the season finals. What about their voices? Would she never hear them again?

She wasn’t OK. Having gone through this before didn’t make it any easier. She didn’t know anything about grief, after all. It could stalk her, sneak out behind a lamppost or column and attack, at any time. And sometimes, when she wasn’t OK, she wasn’t sure if the pain would ever cease.

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Another Legacy, 1.35

What started two years ago as a summer project to get fit has become, for Kiki, a lifestyle of fitness. Rain or shine, she loves the hour she spends outdoors, walking or running. Add yoga on top of that, and daily movement becomes her best tool for regulating her mind, senses, and emotions.

Also a habit, she discovers, has become the pre-schoolyear anxiety, and it’s no different as she gets ready for junior year to start.

“OK,” she tells herself, trying to psych up for the first day, “After today, you only have to do this one more time.” Somehow, she doesn’t expect to feel these same jitters before the start of a new year at college.

But she soon realizes there was nothing to worry over, after all. Socially, she seems to be invisible, which is how she likes it, and academically, she’s in the spotlight, which is also to her liking.

Ira is deep in drafting an art history dissertation, and she and Kiki keep each other company studying at the breakfast table.

Mostly, they don’t talk. Kiki likes the sound of Ira’s pencil scratching on the pages of the notebook.

Now and then, they both stop simultaneously to catch their breath.

“Do you think Elizabeth Murray would be better known if she had called the group she founded ‘The Society of Artists,’ rather than ‘The Society of Female Artists’?” Ira asks.

“When was it founded?”

“Mid-nineteenth Century.”

“And where?”


“Oh,” says Kiki, “then definitely.”

Kiki enlists Ira to be her editor for the essays she writes for her Advanced Placement course.

“This is really good!” Ira proclaims. “The way you describe the process of turning pigments into paint. I mean, I didn’t know half of this stuff! And I should! This is my degree program!”

But junior year isn’t only about study success.

This is the year that Kiki’s life, once again, is touched by grief. Or, maybe it’s more than a touch.

It’s a series of body slams, one after the other, that entire winter.

Moira Fyres, Case’s old friend, is the first to pass, and her loss hits Kiki hard, for they’d just begun to become friends themselves, the last time Moira was over. Moira had offered to teach Kiki how to save heirloom seeds this coming summer, and now, this would never happen.

But it isn’t just Moira. Tina Tinker, Aadhya, and even Knox all pass on that winter.

“Most of my friends were old,” Kiki realizes, “and now I don’t have any friends. Except that one art person I met last year at the Romance Festival. I wonder if she even remembers me.”

Having most of her friends die is hard. But what hits her even harder is not that she’s lost them, but that they had to die. That they’re gone.

They’re missing out on everything now. On eating cake. On seeing the gray night slowly gain color again. On the sound of the fridge and the stillness between the hums.

She remembers how, when she was a little girl, she saw her mom and dad in the light of the candles. She believed that they carried on in light–their spark became the spark that shines wherever there is light.

How did she know that? How was she so sure? Was it just wishful thinking, or a way to survive the trauma of grief? Or was she on to something?

She keeps her senses open.

She pricks her intuition, opens that third eye. Maybe they’re still around, though not in physical form. Maybe, just as when she was a little girl, she still had her mom and dad around as angel parents, maybe she still has her friends around on the spiritual level. She doesn’t have to believe that, but it couldn’t hurt to be open to the possibility.

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Another Legacy 1.24

Kiki sitting at the desk

In late autumn, a new sadness enters the home. Moira Fyres has died. The grief hits Ira hardest, maybe because she hadn’t been friends with Moira as long as Case had, or maybe because she doesn’t have as many projects, interests, and activities as Case and Kiki do to distract her.

She goes back to bed after Case leaves for work and Kiki goes to school, and her mid-morning naps dissolve into crying beneath the covers.

Ira crying under the covers

“I can’t get my mind around it,” she confesses to Aadhya. “She was just here the other day. We were becoming friends. Now, we’ll never be better friends. She seemed so full of energy. So alive.”

Ira and Aadhya talking

“They say it was an aneurism,” Aadhya says.

“I know. So sudden,” Ira replies. “Did you know that she was Case’s first friend?”

Ira and Aadhya talking

“I thought I was,” Aadhya says.

“Oh, maybe you were. Maybe I heard wrong and he meant one of his first friends.”

“Probably,” Aadhya adds. “We all used to hang out together.”


“I just don’t know why it’s hitting me so hard,” Ira says.

“Don’t bother trying to figure it out. Grief never makes sense. I mean, look at me. I should be all broke up, right? Or what about Case? You’d think he’d be really sad. Maybe he is, and he’s just not showing it.”

“I think he’s too busy,” Ira says. “He has work. He’s all wrapped up in the adoption process. I’m just here all day, with my thoughts. It gets to me.”

Aadhya, carrying the blank canvas, follows Ira out to the easel.

“Painting will help you feel better,” Aadhya explains.

“I suppose so.” It does feel good spread the paint on the canvas, and the scent of linseed oil helps Ira relax.

Aadhya follows Ira out to the easel

Aadhya leaves before the painting is finished, and Ira is alone, first with her thoughts, and then, as she continues painting, with no thoughts, only feelings, a knife in her chest, bruises under her eyes. Grief is painful.

“Can you help me, Ira?” Kiki asks. It’s a school project.

“Oh, a volcano,” Ira says. “I made one of those when I was in first grade. Using baking soda and vinegar?”

Ira helps Kiki with her school project

“Something like that. Are you still sad, Ira?”

“Yeah. I miss my friend. I’m just so sad that I’ll never see her again. I had all these plans for what we’d do together, and, you know, I thought she could help me as I grow older, by telling me what it’s like and stuff.”

Ira helps Kiki with her school project

“You know what I do when I miss my mom and dad?” Kiki asks. Ira doesn’t say that it’s different, because her mom and dad died when she was so little that she probably doesn’t even remember them. She swallows that thought, and she just listens, instead. “I talk to them.”

“I might feel silly talking to her,” Ira says.

“Doesn’t matter,” says Kiki, “but you could also write. You could write her a letter. It will help.”

The next morning, after Kiki has gone to school and Case to work on-site, before she even cleans up the breakfast dishes, Ira sits at the kitchen table with her journal. She imagines everything she would want to say to Moira.

Ira writes in her journal

Dear Moira,

We never became best friends, but I thought, last time you visited, that we might. I thought, maybe, you would be my close woman friend, and that you were an older woman was all the better, for I would have someone to talk with about the changes my body is going through, and about the shifts in my goals and my plans and dreams as I grow older.

I envisioned us gardening together, sitting at the chess table with a pot of tea, talking over Kiki’s latest milestones, planning for ways to make life easier for Case. I thought that, if I ever did get into college, that I could lean on you for a role model and for advice.

I guess I saw you as a role model, and now you’re gone.

This feels so selfish, because this is all about me, and what I’m missing, which is my dreams of having someone to fill this gap in me. But the thing I’m really sad for is that you’re no longer here. That your life on this green world is over.

When you were here the last time, which is the first time that you and I really talked, the time when we really became friends, your eyes sparkled. You were shining from within, I don’t know if you knew that. We talked about your garden club, and you talked about how hopeful you felt, with all the changes that have happened here in Port Promise, all the changes that Case has been either responsible for or directly involved with, and you told me that you felt so proud. You felt proud to know us.

Maybe it was that shine in your eyes that inspired me, that made me decide then that I wanted to be like you. I’m not much, Moira, and even though I speak my mind, probably more often than I should, I really lack confidence. But somehow, you made me feel that that was OK, and that it didn’t matter, and that just being a person was enough.

Can we still be friends, even though you’re not around? Can I still write you?

I’m not sure if I feel better, but at least I don’t feel so lonely.

Wishing you peace, wherever you are,

Your friend, Ira

Ira writes in her journal

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Another Legacy 1.9

Geeta hears Grim call her name

I’d forgotten how quickly death comes when playing normal lifespan. It seems our game has just started when Geeta succumbs.

During my first legacy, the train of death tried my resilience. I was at the tail-end of a decade-long spell of grief for my dad, and Goofy Love, in many ways, became a canon of eulogies. But it helped me, too, to tell the story of the ultimate departure and the sadness of those left behind.

Geeta collapses on the floor while Case, in the background, researches a mushroom

How did I get to feel that I was immortal? It’s a trick of consciousness, that buzz of energy that fills the space within and without. Wittgenstein saved me, I read his insight: “If we take eternity to mean not infinite temporal duration but timelessness, then eternal life belongs to those who live in the present.” And that was a gift my dad gave me, especially during my last visit with him, in his last few weeks. At one moment, I felt that he really saw me, as he never had before, and we shared timelessness.

I remember standing in the garden, watering the red salvia, and realizing that writing the repetition of legacy deaths had brought me to that moment.

I refused to use the word “death” then. I used “passing” or “a visit from Grim.”

People gather around Geeta

But the pandemic, and the daily totals I’ve been checking every morning for the last eight months, have brought the word “death” into my daily vocabulary.

Today, in my county, 5 new deaths were reported, bringing the total to 722. In the county to the north, 39 were reported, bringing the total to 4,119. In our state, the total is 6,885.

One of those 722 in our county, one of the first deaths, back in April, was an acquaintance of mine, a potential friend, a coworker, the librarian of one of our schools. Writing this now, I can’t believe that we have continued on. I don’t know why the world didn’t stop then. It did stop for her daughter, for her grandchildren. I keep thinking of her grandson.

One bright winter day last year, in my office, the fluorescent lights off as the sun poured in through the south window, we sat at my computer, shoulder to shoulder, and she told me, “We always leave the lights off at home during the day when my grandson comes to visit. If we don’t, he turns them off and tells me, ‘Use Jesus light, grandma!'”

So, I think of her grandson, and what does he think now, when he stands in Jesus light pouring in through the window? Does it bring to him his grandmother?

Her last name was Sims, curiously enough. I told her, that same bright day, that I played a game called Sims. She laughed, and she listened while I told her about it–I mean, she really listened, like Moira and Ira listen to Case. I had that same sentiment towards her–she got me.

We had a cultural connection, too, having both lived in the Bay Area. In fact, when she lived there, she worked for the same company my brother did. It’s a huge statewide company, but it’s likely they knew each other and had even been in meetings together.

She moved out here to go to the university, where she got a PhD in Cultural Anthropology.

Each time I helped her with her school library website, she would send me a card–an actual paper card, not an email–to thank me.

She was gracious and regal and full of light. And I can’t believe she’s gone.

I learned of her death when I was preparing the audio file of the Governing Board meeting for posting on the Board website. The superintendent, in his report, after cheerily talking about plans for remote learning, way back in the spring when all of this was new, somehow segued into mentioning that a pandemic death had taken one of ours. I couldn’t believe it when he said her name.

It still hasn’t sunk in.

Geeta has passed and people weep

I know others who’ve been affected by the pandemic, too. We all do by now. The spouse of a blogger I follow has long Covid, which is affecting neurology and cognition.

What are we doing writing legacies during a pandemic?

Similar to the eulogy my first legacy became, this legacy, perhaps, will become my sadness hotline. Playing The Sims and writing in conjunction offer a way to process. They offer escape, too–until they don’t.

Case calls the sadness hotline

And there is so much to process. Today, the person I hired to clean out my office delivered six cardboard boxes and a boombox, carrying 23 years of my career. Just like that.

When shutdown first started, I was worried about my office plants. I couldn’t get anyone to plant-sit them for me. If they die, I realized, I will not go back to the office. They died. Other people have gone back to the office. I’m not going. Maybe a year from now, or two, when there are no cases in our state or neighboring states, I’ll venture back to say goodbye to everyone.

But thinking about it right now, I don’t want to say goodbye. There’s a walk I used to take, along the quiet, straight, residential street our office building stands on, with mesquite-lined sidewalks and wildflowers that bloom in the sidewalk cracks. I don’t want to admit that that walk isn’t part of my day anymore.

Before I got on the plane to visit my dad the last time, I told my boyfriend, “I don’t want to tell him goodbye.”

“Then maybe you don’t have to,” he said.

So I didn’t. I told him I loved him. I told him I’d see him around.

And I do–whenever I catch the flicker of light off the wing of a bird, when I look at a pine tree, when my eyes water from the bright yellow and orange of a lantana blossom.

Olive Tinker walks through the garden center

Somehow our lives have been disrupted, and our insane belief that we are somehow immune to death has been shattered.

In many ways, I don’t mind the seismic change that the pandemic brought to my life. It’s a reminder of the significance of this. It’s a daily acknowledgement of those we’ve lost, of my friend whose grandson sees her in the Jesus light that pours in through the window.

Case walks home, very sad

I’ve stayed home. I’ve been that privileged. I’ve retired. I’ve been that lucky to be able to. I’m sad, I’m afraid, I’m experiencing separation anxiety at the idea of leaving one of the main ways I’ve integrated into society. But I’m alive. And it’s not fair, that I’m alive and my librarian friend is not, that I’m able to retire and others have to choose between staying safe or having money for rent. It’s not fair, because none of this is, and the cognitive dissonance of living through this time has stretched me beyond limit, to where sometimes, the only place I can reside is timelessness.

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GloPoWriMo – Day 16

Over the Top

in the middle
of a pandemic.

Be Kind to Yourself.
Order ice cream in your next grocery delivery. Chocolate. Get honey, too. Chocolate sauce. Mix it all together. Eat it. Empty the box of your favorite puzzle, the one of the Norman Rockwell painting, not the barbershop one. The fishing one. Pour all the pieces on your kitchen table. Spend five days putting it together. Don’t start with the edges. Stay up all night playing video games. Live in Tamriel. Forget this planet, just for one night. Then eat more ice cream.

in the middle
of a pandemic

Practice Extreme Self Care.
Breathe. Breathe while you do yoga. Stand in the garden. Breathe. Gaze at the mountains. Breathe. Breathe in the shower. Breathe when you take a bath so long that the rough skin on your heels softens and the bath becomes salty with tears. Breathe. Breathe when you stand in your kitchen, olive oil in one hand, cinnamon in the other, wondering what you are doing with each. Where are you? Breathe. Breathe while you pick the dried flakes of skin on your heels, white scales piling up on the corner of the coffee table, trying not to pick until your feet bleed, breathing because for the first time in three weeks your brain feels normal even if your feet hurt when you walk the next morning.

in the middle


Daily Prompt:  “write a poem of over-the-top compliments,” from Na/GloPoWriMo.

Author’s note: Well, I didn’t even try to complete today’s prompt–my mind latched onto “over-the-top,” which this poem is. I considered writing a found-poem composed of Trump’s over-the-top praise for himself (I’d title it “Perfect”), but I don’t really want to feel angry this morning. The poem I wrote is inspired by this article I read last night by Marnie Hunter, published in CNN, “That uncomfortable coronavirus feeling: It could be grief.

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GloPoWriMo – Song 5

Photo of Cat Littlebird and a Bosmer in the crafting area of the Hollow City.

Lament of the Hollow City

I travelled a city
where everyone has lost
someone. The more the pity
the more the cost.

I sought my sister,
the blacksmith his brother.
She’d been there. I’d missed her.
Hollow eyes seek each other.

I faced the blacksmith,
he turned to his anvil.
“Have you anyone to be with?”
“Stay here, if you will.”

In shared defeat, I find a friend.
We can’t cure grief, but our hearts we can mend.

Daily Prompt: “write your own sad poem, but one that… achieves sadness through simplicity,” from Na/GloPoWriMo.

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NaPoWriMo 2019

Puppy Love 26


Do you ever find yourself acting on an idea whose genesis you can’t trace? Where’d that idea come from?

Maybe you were sitting on your couch, feeling a little sad, missing someone, perhaps, or feeling forlorn. Then, next you know, you feel an impulse blow through you.

“I need to get out!” You say. “I need some fresh air!”

Sometimes, we are the ones who whisper these ideas to you, we spirits in the After who never really leave, who always watch and wait for you to listen.

In this way, Lucas found himself following a notion to take Emery for a run along the boardwalk. Oh, yes! I explicitly whispered, “Emery! Emery wants a run! And it will do you good, too.”


By the time Lucas stopped running, he found himself wondering. What was he doing there? I rode the breeze around him. Emery barked softly.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it, pup?” he said.

Do you know that you can see us in reflected light? I shimmered over the waves, singing Lucas’s name, but only Emery listened.


“You’re not alone here, Emery,” I sang. “You’re not alone!”


Lucas let him off the leash, and Emery raced down to the dock, passing another dog, a stray.


Nougat is a boxer with a tail that’s never been bobbed and ears that have never been clipped. She’s lived on the beach for a few months in a loose pack of strays.

Lucas called over an Irish setter, who’d been following Nougat. But it wasn’t the setter that I’d brought Lucas here to see.

“Out on the dock,” I whispered. “Keep on!”


While Lucas befriended Nougat, the dog I’d led them there to meet appeared: Prissy,  a beautiful, intelligent, friendly border collie with the right spirit to bring healing to a home submerged in grief.


Prissy raised her head and sang, long and low, stirring in me all the memories of life and living in a house full of pups.

Sweet days
with sticks and balls and bones

Sweet nights
with a rug on the floor in a home

What a dog,
every dog,
what a dog

wants: a home,
a stick, a bone.

Her song got inside of us.

“You look so lonely,” Lucas said to Nougat. “Do you like living here on the beach, scrounging for food? Wouldn’t you rather come home with us?”


Of course she wanted that. It was fine with Emery, too, but it wasn’t what he had in mind.

What a dog
with a tail and ears and brown eyes

What a dog
with cute feet and just the right size

I like a dog
with long fur

Long ears
and a song

What a dog…


Nougat and I liked his song, but Nougat knew he wasn’t singing about her.


“You’ve caught another dog’s scent, then?” she asked.


He looked up the dock, where Prissy sat.

“She can sing,” he replied.


He trotted up beside her.

“Come meet Lucas,” he said.


And the moment she met him, the moment Lucas met her, we knew, this border collie had found her new home.


But what about Nougat? We can’t leave her behind!

She ran and pounced on Lucas.

“Oh!” he said. “You know the great game of Pounce? Then you belong with us!”

Of course I had my reasons in sending Lucas to the beach with Emery. I hoped he’d find a beautiful dog to bring home.

He surprised me by bringing home two.


The house was full again–six big dogs! And Lucas spent all his time filling supper dishes, bathing dirty dogs, and mopping muddy paw prints.

But through all his efforts, he smiled. He sang.

“So many dogs
So little time!

“So many paws!
Each one divine!”

There are as many ways to heal from grief as there are to grieve. But every healing happens through love.


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Puppy Love 24


Bobie wanted to be there for the next crossing. It’s strange. Memory fades in the After perhaps more quickly than it does in the Today.

We forget how we got here, who, precisely, we were before, and only these visits, occasional or frequent, keep us connected, on our side, to those we’ve left behind.

When the Shepherd of Bones texted that it was Caleb’s time, I called Bobie to me, and we traveled back together.


Caleb had already collapsed when we arrived.

Bobie watched from the ashen hems.


Mochi came, too, to help her pup cross over.


Oh, Caleb! Weren’t you just a pup? You’ll age no more, once you’re with us.


Each time, Grim becomes more and more greedy. I fear one day, he’ll pocket the spirit-ball of light.

“Hand it,” I commanded.

We have an agreement, and if there’s anything that compels Death, it’s a contract.

I took Caleb’s warm spirit. “Soon,” I whispered, “we’ll roam free! We will show you clouds and sunlight and flocks of light-birds to chase!”


I rushed back with Bobie, Mochi, and Caleb’s spirit, releasing it in the moonlight. The old sire, the old dame, and the old pup romped and pounced through the nimbus, and I returned to see if the grieving needed help.

Mr. Bones was watching ice-skating on TV.

“Still here?”

“Can’t get enough,” he said.


Out back, Crackers was the first of the mourners.

“Good dog, Crackers,” I said. “You’ll be joining your litter-brother soon. Don’t worry. It will be a quick crossing, and we’ll all be there to greet you. See those sparks of clouds? That’s them, chasing light-birds!”

But that’s not how to cheer a grieving dog.


Emery joined us.


He sat with Crackers, leaning into him, and spoke in the soft way he has, telling him about time and seasons and space and room.

Together, they walked slowly back to Lucas, surrounded now with all the members of the household.

“I know it seems too soon,” he said to Dustin. “But it’s not really, is it? Didn’t your pa have a great life?”


“My brother’s getting older, too,” he said to Crackers. “And my oldest brother, he’s already passed over. It happens to all of us, and everyone we know.”


It didn’t seem to cheer them up.

But then, Miss Molly barked, “I’m hungry!”

Dustin barked, “Swim! Swim? Swim!”

And Emery lowered his head and softly whispered again about time and space and moonlight and crickets.


“Crickets?” asked Lucas. They listened. The crickets sang. “It’s a nice sound, eh, pups?”

Dustin nosed Lucas’s pocket, where he kept the brush, and Lucas bent down to brush the wiry coat of the white dog.

Chloe remembered her tail, which seemed irresistible at that moment. Miss Molly wondered if Crackers were up for chase.

And Emery, he sighed and smiled. “Life. Space. All one.”


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Puppy Love 22


I’ve observed a few things to help with the grief felt by those left behind. Doing the dishes is one of them.


Does keening help? Lucas seems to think so. But I fear it’s more the animal response to searing pain and not always even palliative. It’s the body’s way of marking the passing.


Tears help, though. That’s what Tanvi tells me.  They cleanse and heal.


Grieving together helps.


When it doesn’t break a family apart, which it can as often as not, it brings a family together.


Pa! You OK, Pa? You play pounce? Emery asked Dustin.


I think not, pup. The pounce has left me.


We each bear our pain in our own ways, and sometimes, those ways find mirrors in the ones we love the most.


If I have sharp knife poke me, then so do Ma and Pa.


And if this poke now, maybe it not poke later.


Ma, you still know how to smile?


Of course, Moon Dog. And I still know how to snuggle, too.


Do you think we continue to learn once we’ve left this realm? We do. We learn from you every day. It why we look back, so we can see what lasts, after we’ve left.


It’s love that lasts, and love that draws us back, and love, too, that lets us go again, when we feel the need to roam.


When the sun set on the sad day, Lucas pulled out his violin. He remembered how Mochi always cowered when he played. He didn’t play that badly, did he? He always thought she was teasing him, and he’d play for her again. He knew, wherever she was, she’d hear.


Twister came racing. Was Lucas OK? It sounded like cats were being strangled!


Ah! It was just the terrible music, as bad as ever, too much for this music-lover to stand, even if he was the performer! How was he ever to get any better if he played worse than he could listen to, himself?


I let him practice, while I chipped in with the chores. Always so much to be done in a houseful of dogs!


But now that Otter and Mochi were with me, there was a bit more room in the house. And that hooded grump said he’d be back soon for Crackers and Caleb. What could we do with all this space that would soon open up?

I hopped on the computer and bookmarked a few pages. “Adoption Success Stories”–and no, this wasn’t the Cat and Dog Adoption Center. Let’s not call it a suggestion. Let’s just say that if a certain someone is thinking along certain lines, he should be able to find the information he needs quickly and easily. And if he isn’t thinking about certain lines, maybe this page will get him to do so.


While I put my scheme into place, Emery checked in with the rest of the family.

Granddam? Twister wondered, as he burst out from under the couch. You got pounce?

She did! Her pounce had returned, and she leapt straight up! All four feet off the floor!

We fly!


You are the flyingest, Moon Dog, said Chloe.


Yes, some things help. Doing the dishes and puppies are two of them. And maybe, just possibly, my wild-hair of a scheme might help, too, one of these days!

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Puppy Love 21


We’d been expecting it. And I was sure to be there. But it didn’t make it easier. The visits of the hooded one were always hard to bear.

She’d been the best mom to Crackers.


And to Caleb, too.


She’d taught Dustin well, and she welcomed Chloe into the family.


Mochi’s acquaintance with the hooded one went way back, to her first day here, when he came for Majora, Nibbler, and Babe, all three taken on the same day. And now, he was here for her.


With a start like that, it’s no wonder she had great depth of feeling.


She was no bigger than Lucas’s hand when she first arrived!


She knew Tanvi, though–and how happy they would be to be reunited in the After!


After Tanvi let, she consoled Lucas, becoming his next best friend.


She was always there, watching over her pups, encouraging Otter.


She and Otter were such good friends.


Well, they’ll be together now, too, so they can play on the breeze, like we all do.


“Looks like I’ll be here pretty frequently, then,” the Shepherd said, consulting his log.

“You don’t have to stick to the schedule,” I told him.

“Yeah, I do,” he said. “Some things can’t be fudged.”

Emery was at his hem, trying to grasp his cloak, growling like the fearless Twister he is.


“I’m not exactly corporeal, you know,” the Gray Bones mumbled.


It was too much for the pup.


It was too much for all of us.

Bones prolonged the show.


And then, the flash of light! The quickening of my own spark!


Stay! Stay! I will deliver you to Tanvi!


With reluctance, the hooded one handed over her spark.


“I always leave empty-handed,” he grumbled. “Hardly seems fair!”


“A bargain is a bargain!” I reminded him.

“If ever there’s a time when you’re not here!” He warned.

But there won’t be. I will be here each and every time, and the spark will be delivered to me for the short journey home.

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