It was a Tuesday. I remember because Magnus had just gotten his teeth cleaned, and I was contemplating the cost of these hounds while I had my morning tea. I don't remember growing up with my parents stressing about dog hygiene…
Anyway, I came across a post — a personal essay shared by someone I follow — about grief. It was beautifully written. Present-tense. Specific. There was a detail about the smell of a hospital room that stopped me mid-sip. I felt something shift in my chest. That particular ache of recognition. I too had been there!
And then something happened in my body before my brain did anything useful.
My shoulders went up. Slightly. My jaw tightened. My eyes went back to the top of the post and started reading again, slower this time, and I wasn’t sure why — not consciously — until about thirty seconds later when the cognitive layer caught up and formed the actual question: Did a person write this?
The ache in my chest didn’t go away. It curdled.
That’s the thing I keep thinking about. The ache didn’t disappear. It just changed flavor. Because my nervous system had already responded — had already opened the door — and then got the news that maybe there was no one on the other side.
