How, amidst all the joys of my life, do I allow turmoil to dictate the flow of my writing? How do I repeatedly break streams of conscious suffering with raw, subconscious disclosure of thought?
My muse is a shadow in the corner of the room. My muse is a cold rush of adrenaline.
My muse is my own misery.
I write to cope.
Alone at my desk I pour both emotion and confusion onto paper like swirls of paint onto canvas, but never do the colors create an image more true, more powerful, more mind-numbingly real than when my words are guided by the hands of Pain, of Sorrow, of Tragedy.
Such a statement does not suggest that writing is not my passion. And that is not to imply that my passion is a hollow despondency- such a fact would make me rather masochistic, a characteristic of which I am not. Quite to the contrary, I often use writing as a way of memorializing happiness. I even write as a means of intellectual stimulation. But that's writing of a different kind. That's writing to remember. That's writing to achieve.
This is writing to feel.
It's time to feel again.
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Madaket Millie, my baby, where did you go? Howl once more won't you? Oh, you can't? Or you won't? Stubborn little puppy, I know you too well for this. Stop playing coy and get over here now- you, with that goofy big black nose. Yeah, you, squiggles. Hairy disaster. Fuzz muffin. My little angel.
Maddie?
Maybe I was ignorant, baby, and I'm sorry. I thought calling you "my puppy" all these years would keep you young forever, but you weren't that old, were you? Fuzzy, open those big brown eyes one more time. Please?
* * *
Most people won't understand. Dogs are companions, sure, but to become philosophical and depressed from one's passing is a bit over the top, isn't it?
No.
This almond-eyed blessing was a piece of me. Is a piece of me.
I can't sit here and pretend I was the only person Maddie was important to; my sister is living proof that a dog can and does make us complete. All I can do is hope that Cayla is mourning in a manner that gives her the strength she needs, as well as the rest of my family.
But Madaket did change me.
In the eighth grade I became the only kid left in my house, and as I entered high school my own self-doubt, depression and familial conflicts often overwhelmed me to a point of exhaustion and distress. But never once was I alone. For five years, Madaket became my best friend: the only figure in my life from which I never felt anything but unconditional love.
A dog's love, perhaps, but perfect love.
For me, Madaket has always symbolized the warmth of home- of family. She embodies the compassion and love my family is capable of but does not always show toward one another.
She was born with a heart shaped mark on her chest, maybe by chance, or maybe to remind us that love shouldn't be an effort. Love simply... is.
This dog- our dog - my shred of hope, has passed away. Suddenly. Abruptly. And though I have lost pets before, I feel as though I have been forever changed.
Madaket changed me. Helped me. Loved me. And I am eternally indebted.
Every moment I shared with Maddie has been replaying in my head since the moment I found out she had passed, and all I can say is I am grateful I had the chance to give her one last hug and one last kiss. Never in my wildest dreams did I expect to lose her so young...
Everything I write for her now comes between tear drops and heavy sobs. Everything is too real, and all I want is to cling to her, hold her, until the pain fades away.
Madaket, my baby, where did the time go?
* * *
My sister posted a quote today I would like to share with everyone:
"Death leaves a heartache no one can heal, love leaves a memory no one can steal."
* * *
Madaket, you're my best friend. I will always love you. Rest in peace, my baby.
Now you really are my angel.
That was beautiful Kedzie. It brought me to tears. I'm so utterly sorry for your loss.
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