I drove home from work on Friday through heavy rain and a growing sense of dread: my longtime companion and partner hadn't answered texts I'd sent from work and I knew, with that sense that only impending grief can instill, that it was going to be bad.
It was bad. I found him in his room, his phone alarm still ringing, the neighbor's Yorkie, which we were caring for through their brief trip west, barking and running around beside him on the bed.
The weekend has been a blur. The neighbors are home now; the dog is, for all we can know that sort of thing, fine. A little confused, I think: on Wednesday afternoon, Randy and I had taken our dog, Sadie, to the vet to be euthanized. So little P is probably missing them both. I know I am.
I have friends. The neighbors are, in fact, good friends. I am surrounded by supportive, caring individuals, some I know well and some I have never met face-to-face (most of my Seven Kitchens family: the writers whose work I've published, the poets who've kindly served as judges). All I need to do is reach out to them. My laptop has pinged quietly all night and all morning as e-mails and Facebook posts resound this support and love to me and to Randy, whose spirit surely lifts at the outpouring. This I believe.
This is all I can write for now.
Alec Hershman: The Egg Goes Under
1 week ago