This line comes from a translated haiku by Mizuta Masahide, a 17th-century poet and samurai who, legend has it, penned it shortly after his home burned to the ground.
It definitely says something that instead of a string of profoundly colorful epithets, he wrote a haiku.
But I digress.
At 7:50am on August 17th, 2010, my mom lost her battle with breast cancer. With her passing, I inherited two absolutely ridiculous dogs: a spindly, confused-looking Boston Terrier/Poodle mix named Josh, and a black-and-white Sheltie named Izzie.
Josh had long skinny limbs and a sparse, wiry coat — think a thin-limbed Yorkie with alopecia. His mirror, Izzie, sported the trademark luxurious Sheltie quadruple coat and a blank, beady-eyed stare.
Josh was the personality of the two, all terrier stubbornness, with a presence ten sizes too big for his 12-pound body. One of his ten thousand nicknames was “Mr. Bun,” because when he curled up, he kind of looked like a little croissant… and that had way too many syllables, so Mr. Bun had to do.
Izzie had the personality of a cereal box, but he was so innocent and funny. Always found wherever Josh was getting into trouble. A truly bonded pair.
I was working my way through school at the time. Suffice it to say, for a while, things were tough. But through a little (read: a lot) of help from God, my friends, and my roommates, I was able to finish school and start my career as an RN.
The idea of giving them up for adoption was out of the question. They were the last living connection I had to my mom. I wouldn’t forsake that. They were family.
I may not be Vin Diesel, but… you get it.
It was May, not long after I got my feet under me as a nurse, Josh, ever the eternal diplomat, escaped the backyard and wandered into a neighbor’s yard, where he was attacked and badly hurt. I had to let him go that night.
A couple months later, in July, liver cancer took Izzie.
I prayed they found each other in the hereafter. And though I was heartbroken, I was, and still am, grateful I got to be there for both of them, and say goodbye. That’s a privilege not everyone gets.
2016 was a rough year.
But as I mourned and healed, I realized I no longer had ties. My family was gone. My friends were starting their own. But for me… my roots were now wherever I decided to take sun and water.
Two months after Izzie passed, I was on the move, and starting my adventure.
I headed west, bouncing from place to place, meeting new people, making new friends, and finally living life the way I intended. Free from the demands of legacy or expectation. Since then, each day I wake up is another chance to chase a new dream and step into a new chapter.
Those of you who’ve known loss know that some wounds linger longer than others. Some pains don’t disappear, we just learn how to carry them.
For me, I still remember.
But now, as I live, they ride shotgun with me in memory. Dog hair and all.
Because every time my barn burned down — I never lost sight of the moon.
— KC
This was moving, beautiful, and very generous to share. I can’t even begin to imagine losing my dogs, or losing my parents, and I sincerely doubt I could carry it with this much grace, let alone write about it. That haiku really does put things in perspective, though. I can see how it might help someone through very dark times.
Thank you for all of this.
It's a great way to look at things and a great way to see things. The moon really lights things up once your eyes adjust. Hehe. Well, it was a rough time, but you got through it and moving on and meeting new folks and traveling and making new connections. I think it's the best way. Awesome post, Kind Chicken.