Runner

I find little comfort in the words, “Her pain is over” or “You gave her the best life possible.” While these might be true, they’re not soothing. But I’ve kept that to myself this past week.

I want to hear, “How is it possible for you to breathe?!” or “I just bought you this massive punching bag.” Now those are cheering words. Actually, my good friend Mia brought me a king size chocolate bar to work with a note that said “here is what I use for medication.” That melted my heart I had pre-sworn would be frozen forever.

I like to think of myself as someone pretty happy and who isn't bothered by a whole lot. The first time I read Harry Potter I was (admittedly) bland in my impressions of the Mirror of Erised. Maybe I wasn’t sure (and wasn’t interested in exploring) what I’d see in it.

I think I know now. 

We lost Cappy (unexpectedly) on Tuesday which was also Tony’s 35^th birthday. That fact alone would have completely destroyed me, but he soldiered on. We tried to have a subdued party with cake at his work, presents, tears and pictures. But each moment was punctuated with a little three-year-old voice whispering, “My doggie is in heaven.”

I’ll confess, their questions are quite sophisticated for their age. As is the way they are unpacking it. A few people have said, “They’re not old enough to get it.” And I think, “But…no, they really do.”

Art has definitely helped us. Okay, okay me. It helps me tell them stories where words just give up. Sometimes what I say and what they hear doesn’t quite match. I mean when I said, “…and the little lamb wailed” they heard: 

The outpouring of cards, thoughts, prayers, {chocolate} and photographs of her has been overwhelming. Apparently she was followed with the camera more than my children (which I actually thought was impossible).

The day after Cappy died, Henry laid his blanket in the space where her bed was until the night before. He then took his stuffed puppy and faced it out the window “To look to the sky. To Cappy.”

 

I know, you weren’t actually interesting in wearing eye makeup today.

I keep telling them:

This.

This is the hardest thing in the whole world.

During that horrific week this past April I created a playlist to keep the twins and I focused and distracted. At the top of the list was a single called “Runner” by Dustin O’Halloran.

I’ve found peace in its recurrence, and the twins were happy for me to keep it on repeat. Its title and cadence seemed to keep us coming back to meditate on what happened in Boston. Even for that week they knew something was happening. We spared them the details but did give them the outline.

This week I’ve found myself listening to it all over again. Perhaps for different reasons now. For another runner. A twelve-year-old retired racing greyhound.

When we meet again Cappy, I promise, I’ll be there. With a sign. At the finish line. Calling your name. Cheering you on.

And we’ll see then who is running faster.