For some reason last night was not a good one. It seems like every time my wife is away and I go to the store, coming home sets off a chain reaction. I know that no one is there, the tv is not on, most likely the house will be dark, and no wiggle butt greeting me. Then, as I get closer to home, I see our major walk route, the bush where Stinky Wink would stick his entire head inside, and a thousand other little reminders that we will not be walking later. By the time I got into the house, the tears showed up. They didn't last as long, and were not as profuse as before. I guess it was a reminder that grief never totally leaves us--again, it's a matter of management and perspective.
As a matter of habit, I went to look out the patio door. We have full-length slatted blinds over the doors. Wink would never wait for me to open the blinds. He would stick his head between the blinds and wait for the door to open. As I pulled the blinds so I could see out the door, I started laughing, thinking about that little nut sticking his head in the blinds, expecting that was going to speed-up the opening door. That's part of grief management--the roller-coaster ride from one emotion to another. It's also kind of like those blinds: hiding and revealing, darkness and light. Not long ago I would have cried at the blind reminder. Last night I laughed. That's progress. Thanks for the laughs, Wink. They help to keep me honest with myself, just the way the tears keep me humble. In all of it, my love for you shines, my besses puppo!