I’m in the flu-like stage of grief
where it takes me too long to get out of my pajamas and talk myself into the shower,
so the dog’s walks are always late.
I fall asleep unexpectedly and early, and I awake the same way—when it’s too dark and too quiet to do any awake things,
so it’s like I’m here but on London time
which is only something a grief-stricken person
or an inept world traveler would understand.
My dog does not understand because animals live in predictable cycles,
so he gathers twigs and garden debris to taste-test when his dish is empty
and today he taught himself to climb the pantry shelves
for a disappointing journey through my canned goods.
I appreciate his effort
so much that I shower and dress and dump the twigs from his dish and leash him
for a walk around the block that tires us both.
It will get better soon, I tell him.
It’s the first lie I’ve ever told him.
I have no control over when this will get better.
All I can do is take
step
after
step
until we’ve gone full circle back to our garden gate.
All I can do is know that some days that’s enough. Some days that a lot:
the walk
the sky
the fresh air
and someone to share it with.
Christina Gessler saw an ad on TV that said Hospice of Santa Barbara offered grief counseling. Christina called HSB the next morning. HSB matched her with a Hospice counselor, and offered her a spot in Perie Longo’s Healing Through Poetry group. Christina wrote the poem below a few weeks after her father died.