Not Fixing Just Being
When Granny's old dog Bruno died, I was very sad.
Bruno had been old. He had been slow. He had a special blanket and a special bowl and a way of pressing his nose against your hand that meant: I am here, and you are here, and that is enough.
When he was not there any more, the house felt large.
I cried at Mama's leg. I cried in the kitchen. I cried at bedtime, even though I had been brushing my teeth a moment before.
Mama did not say, "Don't be sad."
She did not say, "It's okay."
She said, "Yes."
She said, "I miss him too."
She sat with me on the floor. The floor was cold. We both stayed there.
For a while the sad was the biggest thing. It had its own shape, like a heavy shawl on my shoulders.
After a while it was smaller. Not gone. Just smaller. We had a biscuit. We did not say much.
Mama said, "It will come back, sometimes. The sad. That's because we loved him a lot."
I nodded.
The sad still comes back. It is part of how big my love for Bruno was.
Sometimes sad is not a problem to fix. Sometimes sad just sits with you, and you sit with it, and that is what is needed.