Jake.

There once was a golden retriever puppy that chewed on my pony tail, and when he was done moved on to attack my feet. The cutest thing. Somehow that was ten years ago.

Liver cancer is a silent and swift killer. Ironically I have been reading a book about the many ways the liver can kill. This book is full of fictional tales of people dysfunctionally, and yet all at once effortlessly achieving the win: despite themselves, consumed by last days and all, they find a truth that is unwavering- the end is the end, and everything else is fleeting.

Somehow, ten years have passed. Today, Jake's liver took him home for the long haul and left me a little breathless, teary-eyed and searching the sky for some noticeable change. There isn't any. Not that the death of a family pet should turn the sky green, but in the passing of an old friend I always seek a marked change, and can never find it. It is only years later, in some smaller moment, that I catch the significance of their passing. The last time I lost a friend it came to me in a cup of coffee in the middle of spring, spiraling out in waves of creamer. Slowly blending until the distinction of coffee from cream had vanished and all that was left was a cup of java, just like on the days before. I await the day when I can comprehend Jake's passing more completely. For now I'll try to run it off and hope that when I get home for Christmas I can find a way to say a belated, but proper goodbye.

Oh, dear friend, I know I'll see you again.
In the mean time, days will pass without you
I'll do my best, to let the sadness slide away
And relish in how good it is to have loved you.