Memory

Memories are held in the body. My visits to the magician remind me that this is true.

Memories are held in smells, in touch, in the things we see and taste.

Memories are held in bottles and jars, rooms and street signs, under certain lights, under cover of darkness.

Today memory came to me in the sterility of a veterinarian’s office. A different one, 80 miles away, with the same floors and the sounds of dogs howling for their loved ones, held us almost two years ago as we said goodbye to a part of our family. Today the memory floored me. The way he jumped as if he were a puppy, not a nine year old whose liver had failed him. The way he wouldn’t settle in my arms, yelped and bled. The drugs they gave him that made his tongue loll to the side. The light in his eyes and the sight of it fading. The tears as we held him and loved him and said goodbye to the body that no longer housed what made him greater than flesh and bone. The way we gave him away and left, sobbing, a part of ourselves staying forever.

Memory begets memory. Grief remembers grief.

Today, I remember Buster. Ass biter extraordinaire. Grumpy old man. Big love.