This seems to be a season of goodbyes. I lost my mom just over seven years ago so it hasn’t been that long yet somehow I’d forgotten the cyclical nature of grief.

This morning I’m feeling raw again from losing Phoebe.

This sweet derpy dog has a hold on my heart like none of our others. I know we gave her a wonderful life and a safe place to be loved but my darkest fear is I somehow failed her in the end. That if I’d somehow been more — perceptive? brave? I don’t even know what word belongs here — I’d have found an easier way for her to leave us.

I realize even as I’m writing this I’m putting words out into the world that have no answer. For pete’s sake, this is what journaling is for, WHAT AM I EVEN DOING OUT HERE?

I don’t know.

Losing Phoebe unmoored me. I got myself to July then went to the beach for the first time since mom died which was, unsurprisingly, difficult. Mia died while we were there and that’s when I decided the Summer of 2023 could fuck all the way off.

So here we are in August and I am fervently praying this hellhole of a summer is done wreaking havoc. I’m adjusting to only two fur babies at home while the nineteen-year-old is moving on to his next adventure and our younger one starts her senior year. Hellos and goodbyes, goodbyes and hellos.