Death is a robber. It steals into your life, taking from you a precious gift that can never be returned. Today, this thief has visited me. In the place of a loved one, I face an empty space, one that will never be truly filled again. Ever.

There is the shock of crying that takes over me. This is supposed to be healthy, a normal reaction in the initial time of mourning. All the experts on this kind of thing seem to say that, so I’ve heard. But all the oceans of tears I shed does not fill the vacuum that death has carved into me. The bloodletting of weeping threatens to drown me. I reach for an anchor, anything to grasp on to remember I am still amongst the living.

So I sit, watching the grandfather clock. Its pendulum ticks a metronome that calms me. Somehow, being this conscious of time passing is soothing to me. It is an acknowledgment that time still exists, and I am still part of that construct called time.

In this world that has changed, nothing seems real anymore but this passing of the seconds. Everything seems slippery, like I have no grasp on what I thought was secure in my life. Rooms once filled with life and memories feel gutted. Even with the noise of everyday life, it is too quiet.

I have witnessed life pass into another stage, the one that the corporeal world calls death. Normally I can be blase in using that word, but to actually see it take place, I do not feel casual enough to utter it. I do not want to acknowledge it. Some call this denial. I have no words to which to describe it, not now. Words are as empty as the wind that has taken a spirit on its breath.

Soon, I go to carve a grave. Nine years of life shared with this small friend that some would callously say “is only a dog”. As though friendship has to have a particular shape for it to be deemed worthy. Never mind what they say, my heart is heavy, and nothing feels real. I mourned through the death of humans, but I never saw one pass through life to death. Death was relayed through a phone call, but today I was summoned as a witness to its trial. I am too numb to speak a verdict.

I wait, for what it is I do not know. Perhaps if I watch the clock enough, it will move backwards, to take me back to the time that I knew. Perhaps if I remain here for some time, what seems to surround me as familiar will render a verdict that nothing has changed. If I believe it hard enough, maybe I will turn to see a dog with a wagging tail, waiting for me to embrace him. But no, this does not happen. There is nothing but empty space. I begin to feel colder, and I do not want to accept what this might mean. Even the ticking of the clock has betrayed me to myself.

Time. It passes by, and as it goes by, the seconds are creating a reality that I do not want. A reality without a friend I have loved. By his death, I have been recreated, for I no longer have an identity with him. There is ice in my heart now, my limbs frozen. Time, it has done nothing to change it.

It is time for me to go now. I go to dig a grave. I sigh, still wanting to hold onto the idea that if I stay here, the reality of death will pass by. But its grip has its icy hold on me. Time for me to leave, it says. The dance of life has gone into mourning.

I close the door behind me. It is time for me to dig a grave. It is time for me to leave, time to face the good-bye I do not want to say:

Good-bye.