Digging a Hole

Snow and freezing rain are in the forecast for this afternoon and evening, so this morning, I got out my shovel and began digging the hole.  It wasn't easy.  Rocks and stubborn tree roots made the chore difficult.  I can't say that the tears freezing on my cheeks helped any, either.  Nor did my runny nose. 

I placed a couple of heavy boards over the hole and a planter on top of them, put away my shovel, and went back inside.

She is dying.  And she is taking her time about it.  Last night, I slept on an air mattress next to the towel she was sleeping on downstairs.  I was certain she would die during the night.  But this morning, she made her way upstairs and asked to go outside.  Although I obliged her, it was a nervous two hours until she came back.  I vowed to keep her inside for the rest of her time.

And then I broke that vow.  Her insistent meows, weak as they are, compelled me to open the door again.  I grabbed my coat and followed her down the driveway.  I was about 15 feet away when she seemed to disappear.  I am fairly certain that she is in the drainpipe at the base of the driveway.  There's water in the pipe, maybe a couple of inches, and that's where she has decided to hide.  There isn't anything I can do about it now.

This morning, there was something I could do.  I could dig a hole.  It took all the love I have to do so.

It is so hard, this letting go.  As hard as stomping on the shoulder of the shovel's blade, as hard as the rocks in the almost-frozen earth, as hard as the tangled web of tree roots, as hard as the resolve to do what needs to be done.

As hard as love.