I recently learned that Oliver, my soul dog and greatest love, has cancer. We don’t have much time left together. I sat down to write about losing him and found myself writing about every long goodbye I’ve ever lived.
When the clothes in my closet belong to a woman I used to be,
but I keep folding that sweater back into the drawer.
When the house I come home to no longer holds me,
but I know where every light switch is in the dark.
When the work I give my days to gives nothing back,
but I keep showing up and leaving myself at the door.
When the dream I built my life around has gone quiet,
but I keep saying it out loud long after it stopped sounding true.
When the path less traveled is crowded now,
and I can’t find my own footprints anymore.
When the woman I’m living as is no longer honest,
but I keep choosing her, even as she wrecks my soul.
When a friendship stops being a soft place to land,
but we laugh at the old stories and leave the rest unsaid.
When a love has run its course and neither of us can say it,
but I still reach for the phone, wanting to tell you first.
When someone I love is ready to go before I’m ready to let them,
they tell the same story twice, and I listen like it’s the last time.
When my dog is failing and I pray I’ll know when it’s time,
but I wait, my face in his fur, holding his warmth for one more day.
The long goodbye begins in knowing.
I stand in the grief up to my throat and watch it all go.
And then there are the goodbyes that don’t wait.
The phone call that drops me to the kitchen floor.
The friend whose last text I meant to answer tomorrow.
The last time I didn’t know was the last time.
No story told twice.
The long goodbye is awful.
It is also grace.
~amy