The problem with going away is coming home.
I used to have a rush of Springer Spaniel love hit me as I entered the door. Smiles & wags & sheer joy to greet me wherever I had been, however long my absence. As Matt grew older, he didn't always hear me come in. Sometimes I could get in, get my coat off, sort myself out & creep upstairs to find him still asleep on the bed. But then he'd wake. And the pleasure would hit, and the joy take root, and I'd truly be home.
A couple of weeks ago I caught myself looking for him as I came home. I realised I was actually searching for him. It's been more than two months since he died.
Without question last week I had three great days at the Olympics; and then I came home. I think the Friday evening at the Olympic stadium will stay in my mind as one of the greatest things I have ever done. The warmth of the evening air, the occasional breeze, the noise of the crowd, the excitement of the races, the disappointment of Team GB's relay squad being disqualified, the sight of the pole vaulters defying gravity.
And then the home coming. Silence. Emptiness.
When I am home, I miss Matt. But sometimes I am beginning to get used to how life now is. And then there are moments when the sadness, the grief simply bites hard. Opening that door and stepping in alone is one of them.
I am grateful for the gift of having had Matt. I guess the play of emotion through these days will just roll on. I miss him. Moments magnify that. My dear friend, my shadow, my companion, my beloved dog. My heart.