Making Space For Absence

If you've ever lost a pet, you know what it's like to sense their absence.

I love animals.

I always have.

And recently, we lost one of our pitties.

He was getting up there in age.

His health was ailing, and we knew it was a matter of time.

Lately, I've been walking through the house, or reaching for something, or opening a door, and for a split second, I expect to see him.

Bub, Bubba, Bubba Nader, whatever name we were calling him that day.

And then I remember, he's not here.

It's strange how grief shows up like that.

It's not big and obvious in moments, although those come too.

It's in those unexpected ones, the in-between ones, the moments where your body still expects a rhythm that no longer exists.

I'll still catch myself listening to his little footsteps, still glance towards his favorite spot and seeing all 92 pounds of him pooled in his memory foam mattress.

I still pause at feeding time like something is missing from the sequence, because it is.

Losing an animal companion doesn't feel peripheral.

It feels woven.

They're part of your day in ways you don't even register until they're gone.

The morning routine shifts, the house sounds different, the small interactions you never documented suddenly feel like the entire story.

There's a kind of companionship animals offer that is hard to explain unless you've experienced it.

They don't ask you to be anything you're not.

They don't need you to explain yourself.

They just show up, constantly.

They show up in the same way over and over again, asking only that you be there too.

And then one day, they're not.

I've been thinking about how we measure grief.