Saying Goodbye

A ceremony for an old friend

There’s a blank space on every couch sit, at every movie night, in every sleepy knee bent beneath covers. Any chance he got to fit his tiny, wiry body into every nook and cranny of our lives, he seized with great relish. He was a comfort and a force and somehow a familiar human soul-friend in a bite-sized dog’s body. He was one of us. And we loved him fiercely. Although, at times, he drove us mad.   

Since we lost him a few months ago, I haven’t been able to bring myself to say goodbye. I cry for him every other day. Miss his tail wagging at the top of the stairs when I open the basement door. Miss the way his front feet turned back towards his tail, bowing his legs out as if to create a broad opening for the berth of his blessedly big heart. 

But last night, my own heart, only half the size, told me it was time. 

I brought down his wooden box of ashes from the mantle. And placed him on the table beside me. I pulled out the paw print cast in plaster the vet sent over the week he died. I gathered all my feathers and bones and bugs and sticks and shells and familiars. I lit incense and brewed rose tea with honey. I put Bon Iver radio on Spotify because that’s what my soul required as the soundtrack. I decorated myself in my favorite red silk kimono and put rings on all my fingers. Then I sat down and got to work. 

I cut a sheet of paper from my journal. A square to fit inside a single sheet of wax. And wrote a goodbye letter to Brewster. I told him how much we miss him. How sorry I am that I didn’t appreciate him more while he was here. I thanked him for being himself and never, not once, deviating from his truth. I thanked him for always knowing when I was sad and needing extra cuddles. For infusing even the mundane moments with joy and laughter. There was never a dull moment when Brewster was around. He knew it. And he wore it with pride. 

Tears fell like pancake batter onto the paper. And I stopped several times to surf the tidal waves of grief. I signed my name with a heart, and placed the letter beside the strand of cut wick. I tightly rolled the letter up until it was in the shape of a candle, got my favorite brass holder, and pressed the wax butt at the base to snuggle inside. I lit the candle with a struck match and watched it burn. As my curls of words became curls of smoke, I knew they were making their way up to him. Beyond the Understood and into the Unknown. 

I know he was there last night because the candle set off the fire alarm in the hallway. And causing a fuss of frenzy in an otherwise peaceful moment was Brewster’s signature move. I don’t think you ever get over losing a friend. But it sure felt good to honor the gift his life was to mine. In some small but mighty way.