“You will always be my hero/I will always be your sea.” I read these lines yesterday, and I fell to my knees, weeping. My whole body was an earthquake, and I felt as if the ground would open up and swallow me whole. I can’t even begin to articulate losing Sophie. Images of her come in waves and I can’t stop the shaking. I can’t stop from crying so publicly. I can still smell her everywhere. She ghosts, and I move through my home as if I were a guest because it is forever hers. My father tells me to keep the smell for as long as I can. He tells me that it’ll never not hurt, because as the days pass, her loss will become easier to bear. I know this is true, but right now I can’t imagine it possible.
As writers, we have this ability to write out pain, put it somewhere else, somewhere distant and quiet, but Sophie’s loss is palpable. She is not yet a thing that can be put someplace, can be written about, so I sit here engulfed in the enormity of her loss. And suddenly death is reduced to a patch of fur rising and then a patch of fur ceasing to rise. They wrapped her up like a present and took her from me, and all I can think is where is my girl? Where is my sweet, difficult little girl?
At one point, I will write about how she’s literally changed my life. Seven years of greatness, of love and sweetness and sickness and everything in between. She was my constant, my brave one, and all I can say now is that I miss her. I feel as if every bone in my body is breaking and I can’t stop it.
Below is my final moment of holding her in my arms as she was breathing, but falling asleep — moments before her injection — and then I laid her quietly down my bed and buried myself in her hair. I miss her so very much.
Please understand if I can’t comment right now. I just wanted to share our final days together, and how she made me so very happy. Please hold on to your loved ones. Please be kind.