When we used to leave her for trips that she could not come with us on, I would count the days in-between that we would spend apart. Sometimes it gave me comfort to know that the days in the middle of leaving her and being reunited again were less than I had expected. Yet, everyday that we were apart, I missed her deeply and thought of her often.

I knew that one day she and I would lose our daily physical connection when she would have to leave this Earth and begin her spiritual journey beyond this realm. There were magical moments in the moment that lent me the awareness of how special the now-memories were. These were not the really big things. They were always the smallest little details like the way her fur felt between my fingers; how warm and how soft she was when I’d lay my head on her hind-quarter and snuggle up.

When we lost Raya unexpectedly with her life expectancy being cut in half, I knew that the days to follow her active death would be the hardest. I never could have fathomed how gut-wrenching it would be to realize how much further we were each day from the last time we were with her. Now, with each passing day, it feels like we are growing farther from the last things we did together, the three of us. The weirdest things I never would have imagined to be triggering are. Like the stuffies we made from clams we dug on our last salt-pond day of the summer, now eaten and none left. The dog hair on our car seats that is becoming less and less each time we get into our cars. These little pieces of our girl and the way she was engrained into our life growing further from our grasp.

It has become hard to let go of certain material items that I never would have struggled to get rid of before. An old down jacket that I had decided to retire and giveaway still hangs in my bedroom closet; it was the jacket that was with me as we hiked every mile together and summitted every mountain she ever would with us. An old couch that we grew to despise, yet now it sits in our living room with our new couch because it was her couch; the couch with the worn spot on the arm where she rested her head.

I still cannot imagine the idea of putting her and all of her belongings away on a shelf or in the attic. She was so much more than a Rubbermaid full of her belongings. Her bed still sits at the end of ours. Her toy baskets are still stuffed full in the living room where they lived her entire life. We had moved her bed at work out from under our desk and I found myself putting it back. I couldn’t come to terms with her bed being shoved into a corner where clutter collected. She was and is not a disposable or junk item.

Raya was vivacious. She embodied all of the good qualities and magic of this world. I admired her in so many ways. Her stamina and strength. Her brilliance and joyful sparkle. The strategist and strong-will of a being that knew what she wanted. Her playful excitement that overlapped in our lives with contagion. Along with everything she taught us about love, light, and grace for ourselves and those we hold closest. I loved Raya more than I have ever loved anything in my life.

The holidays this year will be so different. I loved the holidays because of her. She was so fun and excitable. She loved any giftbag, even the ones that she deemed should be gifts, but they were only groceries. She was so smart and so overjoyed by the sight of presents. She opened every single one on her own, hunting for what might be inside, pulling it out, and romping around with it after like it was the best thing ever. Then, she would do that all over again with the next gift. It made me so happy and overflowed my heart. I am not sure how to celebrate Christmas this year without that. Without her.

There is part of my brain that still hopes that this is just a nightmare I will wake up from. Maybe one morning I will open my eyes in our sunny bedroom and the rays will illuminate her soundly sleeping on her bed again. I will feel the biggest relief and weight lifted from my chest; it wasn’t real. Then, there is the side of my brain that knows how irrational that is – realizes the finality of her never coming back home. I just wish I could surprise her brother Apollo – who still looks for her behind us when we come home from work at night – with her return so he can stop longing for his girl; waiting and hoping.

I used to believe that hope was a good thing. It is not entirely bad. However, it does lead you to unrealistic and sometimes unreasonable scenarios. As humans, we cannot help ourselves in considering the “what-ifs”. We tell ourselves that if / when we do it next time, we can prevent certain things. Control them.

Sometimes life just is what is. And, I hate that saying with my entire being. But, sometimes, it doesn’t matter what we feel we could have changed because certain things are out of our control. I never would have guessed that we would lose our girl at seven years old. I was struggling with her being seven because I realized it meant she was getting older. Technically, she was middle-aged for her life expectancy. I had wrapped my head around the fact that what we had already shared with her in time was about the amount we had left. I hated every bit of that realization because no amount of time with her would have ever been enough. Even another seven years would have been too soon. Now, I am sitting here understanding that at least if she had her full life expectancy, we would not feel like she was robbed of the time and life she deserved. Bad things happen to good souls. While the worst people sit and rot in prison alive, there are children facing life-threatening adversity daily and dogs passing with merely half of their lives lived. It is not fair, but the world never has been.

I struggle as I feel the little details and connections slipping further from our grasp. I cling to anything that makes me feel close to her because, physically, that is all I have left of her now. I am scared of the day her toys don’t smell any bit like her anymore. Or, of the day that I stop finding bits of her fur around the house in tucked away places. The moment that I cannot remember the exact way she exhaled and flexed her feet as she nuzzled her face and her body to settle in. The way she’d look out the window in the car, just visible by looking back over my shoulder. Her double-paws for Dad while we were driving in the van. The excitement as we drove towards a place she knew and loved. The further we get from these things, the more time that passes in-between, the more I fear losing them and a dulling connection with her.

So, I hang on tight to the things we shared with her because no matter how inanimate those things are, her life is within them.