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Folding Laundry
In Memory of Flash: Part 4
It’s January 13, 2018. I’m folding laundry. I see my bathrobe. The following thoughts run unabated through my mind.
The last time I wore this it was November and you were still alive. I was in the emergency room and then we came to get you from the PetsHotel and I was too sick from the food poisoning to come in to get you. Daddy had to go in alone. He said you realized quickly I wasn’t there and led him to the car to find me.
It was the last time we’d ever pick you up from being boarded. I missed it. Those two nights, not even two months ago, we left you. You were safe, spoiled, loved, adored. I ordered you every amenity, even aromatherapy (which made your Daddy laugh at me). You were beloved by the staff, and I know you were adored by your groomer. Yet, I still feel so much guilt and grief that I left you for those two nights.
I was wearing this robe that morning. I was so, so sick and you knew it. You always knew. You put your warm head on my arm and snuggled in. I know you knew how loved you were, but I still feel so guilty that I missed this moment, this one silly moment that didn’t even phase you for more than a couple of minutes (until you “found” me in the car).
A few days pass. More laundry. There’s the kelly green shirt I wore the morning we said goodbye to you, which was the…
