Confronting Persephone's Birthday

I would have published this sooner but, if I’m being honest, I was dreading the writing of this post.

September 23rd. A good and bad day. Percy was born on this day in 2018. I only got to spend 11 months with her. But they were some of the best months of my life.

I hate to say it, though, I don’t really remember most of it. It’s definitely the trauma. I feel it, every day. The avoidance. The door inside my head I won’t even get close to for fear she’ll burst open, sending a flood of chaotic emotions cascading through my brain, ready to drown me.

Grief is scary. But it's also love.

I have bits and pieces of her in my memory. The good times, the happiness. Going on her first walk, cuddling with her in the mornings and evenings, spending a bunch of time outside where she’d run her heart out. That one time my dad scared the living hell out of her while we were on a walk and she left me in the dust. I laughed so hard, I almost peed myself. She was definitely not a guard dog. But she was my baby. She’d get so excited when I’d come home or one of her people came over, she’d lick the glass on the windows and/or doors. She used to sigh so heavily when she’d nestle her head in my lap. I don’t remember her bark. Vaguely, her whine. I have her smile engrained onto the back of my eyelids.

And then there is her death day. Almost every detail carved into my heart. That’s a post for another time, though. Not to be remembered on her birthday. The celebration of her life.

It's just not something I want to relive right now.

I want to always remember her smile. We won’t think of her any other way but living and loving her life. My happy girl.