Letting Go

I once sat on a bench,
In a watermeadow,
At the end of summer,
Under a burnt orange sunset,
With crimson poppies beginning to turn.

I could tell that
My childhood dog,
Who I had brought there since she was small,
Since I was small,
Didn’t remember it now.
Her honey-coloured eyes were glazed over,
She was half the weight she used to be,
But she still turned her grey muzzle
Gently towards the warm sun.

I knew the decision was coming.
It was time.
Even though I desperately did not want it to be.

I softly whispered in to her deaf ears,
It was ok to go.

I wasn’t angry.
I didn’t cry.
I would do that
When she was no longer here
And I had to figure out how to live,
Without her.

It was time.

~o~

Hia, darling.
The other day I sat on the bench where we first met.
You know,
Outside the red-bricks of the university.
By the black water of the canal,
With the flowers,
Remembering us during our Masters days.
I smiled.
I know you loved the flowers.
And the water.

I want you to know
I’m not angry.
I didn’t cry.
The last thing I want is for you to carry any guilt.
I will be ok.
I will figure it out.

But, it’s time.