Orange Drop

I recognize most people don't understand, but I am still grieving Cap. I've been reading grief books, so I know judging your grief only makes it worse. But I do judge myself because I know caring so much about a hamster is not seen as Acceptable. So many glamorous things are happening right now. Getting tapped for exciting development projects and extended meetings with my favorite artist and pitching to the crown jewel with a crown jewel. But underneath everything I do and say there's a weight on my heart and a crumpled photo in my purse. I feel embarrassed even writing this, but to my knowledge only six people read this blog and no one else can find it. I just wish I was normal.

Yesterday we took down her cage. I've been dreading it. I didn't know what would be worse--always looking in to find no one home or no home at all. But it was time, Saturday January 28th, 2023 at 3:30 PM. We sorted things into donate and toss, I walked the shavings to the dumpster, we took a photo of her paw print in the sand bath. I knew the sand bath would be the worst. I guess because it was the last place I could touch she touched. Put a peanut in her ashes box.

Now there's open space on the wall and a picture frame where her whole life used to be.

We decided to take a walk and drop her extra pellets along the way for neighborhood mice. I thought hiking up the mountain for sunset might be nice. Up at the top the sun looked just like a juicy, peeled orange. It dropped heavy and slow.

I always feel equally enlivened and melancholy at sunset. What an incredible gift to live a single day, and what an incredible responsibility to live it well. The sun disappearing feels so final. That's a wrap on January 28th, 2023 forever for all time. But tomorrow the goodbye repeats itself. I think I worry about final goodbyes, but the truth is there's always a new one right around the corner.