the passing of time is felt
- Aja Sun Houlton
- Nov 11
- 3 min read
i keep thinking,
this has been the fastest year of my life.
four months ago,
i was getting married.
now i'm on an airplane flying across the pacific.
now Atlas is dead.
_______
i was halfway around the world
when i facetimed my dog for the last time.
it was 9pm in indonesia,
but early morning in kentucky.
i could barely choke out the words.
i told my parents,
don't cry until after they put him down.
i told them,
he gets anxious when people cry.
i know this because i cried a lot in college,
and he would whine and lay his head on me
and lick my tears
until i was shoving him off me and laughing instead.
he made everything feel
light and insignificant in the best way.
when i facetimed him,
he looked skinny and his breathing was labored.
but his face was happy.
somehow he always looked like he was smiling.
something about his innocence and obliviousness
to what was about to happen
only made the knowledge more painful for me.
_______
he was diagnosed with cancer only a month ago.
he had just turned nine.
maybe that's why it feels especially tragic.
i remember skipping class in high school on my birthday,
driving up to rural ohio,
holding him close to my chest on the way home,
telling my family that i wanted to call him Atlas.
he lived with me and my college roommates
during the pandemic.
there was nothing else to do,
so each week it became my quiet purpose
to find a new creek to swim in with him.
we would walk around campus in the evenings
to watch the sunset.
on the nights that broke me open,
he was there, sleeping beside me.
he brought me so much joy in those nine years.
_______
i didn't know the last time i saw him was the last time.
part of me wishes i would've known:
i could have given him more love,
more scratches behind the ears,
more pieces of chicken secretly underneath the kitchen table.
but ultimately i'm glad neither of us knew that
the end was coming so suddenly.
i'll remember kissing him on the
heart-shaped white spot on his head,
telling him that i love him and that i'll see him again soon.
just another ordinary day.
i like thinking that he'll remember me that way, too.
_______
grief is just love poured out again and again and again.
i feel like a little kid:
i wish i never knew him,
never adopted him in the first place—
then this grief wouldn't exist,
wouldn't feel so heavy.
but i know that the meaning of life is
not to avoid pain or suffering.
so i allow myself to feel the devastation of the end.
allow grief to soften my edges.
and feel grateful that i loved so profoundly
that it hurts this deeply.
_______
when i woke up that next morning,
he was gone.
buried under the tree-line in my parent's backyard.
the vinca we had cut four months prior
to put in my wedding bouquet,
growing right beside his grave.
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