not dark yet (but it's getting there)

Not dark yet; but it's getting there. A hard line drawn by Bob Dylan. Right now, this morning, I am thinking about hope. Not feeling it. Thinking about it. Hope is wonderful. Imagining springtimes just the way we would like them. Enjoying that imagination...

We've talked about having our companion being with us here, still, in the springtime. This is what we've hoped for. But Oswald can no longer feed himself. Just a little over a month and the bastard cancer appears to be doing it's work. Strangling this innocent creature, this good old guy.

So Lynda and I sit on the couch and discuss the decision. Her face is wet with tears. My eyes are dry, now, but my heart is suspended somewhere between heavy and empty. I have a hollow sense in the pit of my gut. Ironically (and I've admitted this before) I was never as close to Oswald as I've been in this last six weeks. So I have to thank Oswald for that.

We put little portions of food, all his favourite things, on a plate and like children hoping for Santa Claus we hope for that food to disappear. But it doesn't. There is, instead, just a mess. A pool of drool; on the floor by the plate, droplets leading away and some hanging off of his sad and frustrated face. Watching this feels like love. Getting down on the floor beside him to chop the bits into smaller bits so that he can swallow feels like love. It's love.

Love and loss. Inseparable. Buddha warned against attachment. But I have not spent my life under a Banyan tree. I'll take the sorrow, because these moments have been precious. It's not dark yet, but the springtime is suddenly a long long way away...