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 His galumphing paws at brief rest, he leans into me, and gazes intently at the kids running across the lawn. I pull him closer and absent-mindedly scratch around his neck. How innocently matter-of-fact, our love for one another.
The pain of being on the other side of the continent in a different country. He passed on two hours before I was to go on stage to perform a concerto. The finality of a last breath -- never something I've understood.
I remember holding his face, looking into his kind, brown eyes, and telling him that I'd be going away to college, that he and I would have significantly less days to romp. I tried explaining to him late that muggy summer, everyday, that in a week's time, I wouldn't be around and it wasn't because I didn't love him. I told him that I'd be back. I half-laughed at my attempting to explain the concepts of love in absence, an education and a career, distance and time. These are the hardest goodbyes: Not being able to really say them.
My mom put the receiver to his ear. She asked me to say something to him. All I could say between sobs was his name. This wasn't college.
And there wasn't anything I could explain.
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