“And now my old dog is dead, and another I had after him, and my parents are dead, and that first world, that old house, is sold and lost, and the books I gathered there lost, or sold- but more books bought, and in another place, board by board and stone by stone, like a house, a true life built, and all because I was steadfast about one or two things: loving foxes, and poems, the blank piece of paper, and my own energy- and mostly the shimmering shoulders of the world that shrug carelessly over the fate of any individual that they may, the better, keep the Niles and Amazons flowing.”
— Mary Oliver (Blue Pastures)
Old dogs lie buried in the garden here, a place where, in another lifetime, my husband, children, companion animals and I once lived, where my parents once came to share our lives and bear witness.
Dougie and I grieved for each one who departed; when we sold and left the only home he had known behind.
We moved to a sheltered place and comforted one another.
Now my old dog is dead too. I know! I held him close to my heart as he died.
Dougie is gone, joining those, so many whose hands/paws we held, watched as they went.
Soon I will be leaving this place that offered safe harbor, taking his ashes to mix with the ashes of others.
I am moving to make yet another fresh start, selling more, giving away more, but, taking memories of happy family days to weave and wrap around me.
I will go to another place where I will scatter mixed ashes and, little by little, piece by piece, rebuild.