I Had A Moment

I had a moment today.

I was outside with my dogs when I saw Siouxsie playing with something.  She was picking up little chunks of something (pieces of sticks) and tossing them in the air for herself to chase.  

This reminded me of our family dog, Kona.  Kona used to stand on her back legs, pick apples from our crab tree, and then toss them for herself to chase.

I wanted to catch Siouxsie doing this on video, but, of course, she stopped doing it every time I pulled out my phone.

But that wasn’t the moment.  The moment was when I thought to myself, “I need to get this on video so I can send it to Mom.”

Mom died 8 years ago.  

Loss is such a weird thing.  There are days when it feels like it’s been forever since my parents died.  And there are days when I still reach for my phone to talk to one of them.  Mom died 8 years ago, and Dad died 18 years ago.  

It doesn’t ache the way it used to.
But it still catches me off guard.

I don’t think grief ever really leaves.
It just changes shape.

It shows up in these small pauses—moments when your body remembers before your brain does.

Not because they’re gone.
But because, for a second, they’re still part of my reflexes.

And maybe that’s what love leaves behind.