Dear Lyla,
The 13th of December came, and the world felt colder without you. I whispered a happy birthday into the emptiness, hoping the wind would carry it to wherever you are. I tried celebrating it at the shelter, but I could not stop crying my eyes out for every other dog that licked my face made me feel more lonely. Fortunately, I had someone to hold my hand and wipe my tears. I love people who are there for me - even when they’re going through a hard time, even when they are not someone I’d expect to hold my hand. You would have been four. Four years of mischief, of joy, of that familiar rhythm of your paws on the floor and your breath on my hand. But, there’s only silence, and the ache of your absence grows louder with every passing day.
Winter is here, Lyla. I took out the coats, the sweaters, the scarves. They are still tangled with you — threads of your fur, caught in the fibers like tiny, golden memories. I don’t clean them. I can’t. To let them go would be to lose the last pieces of you, of Sky. What is left of you both now lives in the quiet rebellion of my refusal to dust you away. You’re still here in the air, in the corners of the house, in every stray hair that lands in my lap, flooring me with the force of love and loss all over again.
Some days, I think I’m okay. I smile at the thought of your wagging tail, your curious eyes. But then winter’s chill reminds me that warmth left with you. You, my little sunbeam, who lit up the gloomiest of days.
Do you remember our winters together? The way you’d curl up beside me, burrowing into the folds of a blanket, your warmth seeping into my skin? Do you remember how you’d chase the frost on the windows, your nose pressed to the glass, leaving little foggy trails behind? I do. I remember it all.
And yet, I fear I’m forgetting. Forgetting the exact shade of your fur in the sunlight, the sound of your bark, the way your eyes looked at me — like I was your whole world. But you were mine, too. You still are.
They say time heals, but Lyla, time is a thief. It steals the edges of you from me, dulls the sharpness of your memory. And I fight it, clutching at what remains — the fur, the toys, the photos, the scent of you that still lingers in some forgotten corner of a coat.
I would give anything to bring you back. Anything to see you bounding through the house, to hear the jingle of your collar, to feel your nose nudging me awake. Anything to have you here for another winter, another birthday, another moment.
But all I have now is this letter, this ache, and the hope that somehow, somewhere, you can feel how much you are loved and missed.
Happy birthday, my sweet Lyla. Run free, wherever you are. Find Sky, and wait for me. Until then, I’ll keep you alive in the fur I won’t clean, the memories I won’t let go of, and the love that will never, ever fade.
And Oh, please tell me that if I scour every inch of this house, collect every strand of fur, Can I gather them into my arms, and beg the universe to breathe life back into them?
Forever yours,
With all my heart and more,
Mama
