After twelve lonely months, he came back to me. I held him in my arms—oh, the warmth of his body, the smell of his soft tresses. I reflexively buried my face into his long, strawberry blonde hair and breathed deeply. When I pulled back and looked into his face, he kissed me on the nose, just like he always did. 

I couldn’t believe he was back—his absence left a void in my heart that no other has been able to fill. 

I lost my beloved on February 23 after being inseparable for ten years. Now the house was eerily quiet and the daily routine disrupted. The weight of grief on my heart ever since has been unbearable at times.

I’d taken him to the hospital for his scheduled yearly procedure that day, and he’d cried as I released him to the doctor. The next time I saw him he lay dead in a box perfectly sized to his body and wrapped in a pink blanket. 

I sat alone with him in an exam room, numb from shock and trying to focus through my now foggy, salt-infused contact lenses. I remember thinking, “Why did they wrap him in pink? He’s a boy—the blanket should be blue . . .” 

I ran my hands under his back and bent down to inhale the sweet smell of the hair we had just washed before going to the hospital. I wanted to fill myself with one more whiff of the one I loved so dearly. Dead less than an hour, though, and the unique scent had dissipated along with his life. 

I brought his ashes home five days later in a small, cedar box with a gold plate across the top that proudly states his name. I still take him places with me—on walks, car rides, wakeboarding, to Wal-Mart—but our conversations are one-sided these days.  

Gold, cursive stitching across the purple velvet pouch that holds his box reads, “Until We Meet Again.” 

Now we just had.

He was really alive! I knew it—I just knew he’d come back to me! He wasn’t really gone after all . . .

Exhilarating joy woke me with a start. I climbed the stairs and poured myself a steamy cup of coffee before heading to the back porch to watch the sun rise. I wiped the tears from my cheeks before they fell into the dried bouquet of white roses the veterinarian had sent on February 23. That basket of flowers rests on top of his little crate that still holds his favorite baby. The kibble is still in his food bowl, and I still give him fresh water every day.  

I love you, J.R.  Rest in peace, until we meet again . . .