I still reach in the dark for the weight of you

 I still reach in the dark for the weight of you. Habit makes my hand move before memory remembers that you aren’t there. Your breath was a lullaby I didn’t know I needed until it stopped.

The last time I held you, your eyes were soft as weathered pages. You looked at me like you always did—like I was the only thing that mattered in the whole world. I whispered every clumsy gratitude I had stored up, the things I never said when life was ordinary: thank you, forgive me, I love you. You answered with the small trusting press of your head and the hush of being together.

Driving home without you turned the world into a stranger. The streetlights looked different. The days stretched longer. Sometimes I find your collar in my hand and the sound it used to make—tiny music—breaks me open again. But then something else happens: a warmth, a quiet memory that steadies me. I remember you chasing sunlight on the kitchen floor, sniffing my shoes like they contained the whole of me, the ridiculous way you would insist upon being part of every small task. Those ordinary things—they were miracles.

Saying goodbye does not mean I stop carrying you. Your gentleness taught me patience. Your quiet joy taught me to notice small blessings. Grief is the price I gladly pay for a love that was that deep. And if faith is true, then goodbye is only a comma—not the end. Somewhere beyond the hush there is a field of light. Somewhere, you are running with whole paws and a healed heart, waiting with that patient face you always wore when you forgave me for being human.

So goodbye, my gentle soul. Rest in the bright places. Know the life you shared was enough: full and wild and sacred. I will keep speaking your name. I will keep the candle lit. I will keep walking forward, holding the map of your memory against my ribs until the day I see you again.