Drifting

The pup and I have been bonding. Me with her, and her with just about everything that's chewable in our home, leaving me to chase after her constantly to make sure she's not into anything she shouldn't be, and not doing anything she ought not to do. At least not in the house...

But she has been a welcome distraction in a week that still seems more than just a bit surreal. And it's hard to believe that it's already been one week. Seven whole days from then to now for the permanency of death to begin the process of being felt.

And I've chosen this weekend to be silent. More so by accident than actual choice, having left my cell phone at the office with no hopes of retrieving it until Monday morning,with no trips home to check on things with my Father or my sisters.

As selfish as I suppose this seems to say, I needed this weekend to be in my own home, to sort myself out after all of this. After everything. And it turns out, I've come to the conclusion that I'm not coping with things at all well. After all, it's not normal to obsess over whether the puppy is still breathing every time she falls to sleep and my own sleep is filled with dreams of a breath begun and then not taken.

You cannot see death, not even one that you could call beautiful, without feeling so, so much and feeling a little bit lost and completely dazed by the whole thing. It's like walking around in a fog, waiting for a trail of crumbs to lead you out. Or riding a wave between the highs, the lows and the undefined areas of a tide that can sweep you out to sea as fast as sail you back to shore.