Week 12 - “Ruby”

Yesterday, I came across a poem by Becky Hemsley that went as such: “I missed you quietly today. So quietly that no one noticed … I missed you without tears or noise or fanfare. But oh how I felt it.” 

Lately, I have been missing you “quietly”. But the imprints you’ve left behind are oh so “loud”. 

The lefthand side of the couch is sunken in, indented with the memory of you. Your bed and blankets still have your smell. The collar you will no longer wear is frayed from years of use; the paint long chipped from the tag that bears your name. All that remains are the engraved letters: Ruby. 

When I came home today, you were not there. You did not amble off the couch, put your paws onto my legs, to see what I had brought you. For a moment, I had forgotten. You must have been in the balcony, watching other dogs pass by. But nor were you there either.

You have not been there. You have not been there to see how I’ve grieved quietly. You have not been there to rest your snout on my lap and stare at me with knowing, sober eyes. How could you be?

Yet you are everywhere. In the nook you carved out whenever you slept on my bed. In the scratches you’ve left on the bottoms of our doors. In the empty weight on my lap, and the very heavy one you’ve left in my chest. 

The years we’ve spent, and the ones that will continue without you, are both quiet and loud. I am not sure I will always be able to tell which is which. But with certainty, I know this:

I will carry the burden of having to grieve you for however long it takes to carry the one of having loved you.