The last scent of her ended at the woods. Perhaps, as some have suggested, this was her end, and it was the end of her choosing—to run free, to frolic in the creek like a puppy.
Perhaps she finally caught the squirrel that frequented her twitching dreams; perhaps she had an unforgettable meal the same night we did.
That night, I cried myself to sleep or at least cried myself into staring at the ceiling trying to sleep. The warm tears cooled when they slid down my face; I didn’t have the energy to wipe them away. I was stuck, lost. I am positive person, a person who finds solutions. When a problem comes, I smile and form a plan.
In a year of endless losses, the partnership in which I’d sought solace became one more unexpected casualty. There was the subtle toll my mental health had taken on my lover’s, the way my history seeped into our present. There are, as Cohen and Fisher and so many others know so well know, cracks and fissures that even love cannot fill or heal.
