The March of Time

I'm having a weird day. I left for my run this morning without my watch. I don't think I've been out of the house without a watch in at least a year, probably more. What I have to show for my vaguely OCD-ish tendencies is a smear of pale on my left wrist, and reputation for being late anyways. I elected not to go back for it, since it takes me about the same amount of time to run 7km whether I pace it out or not. But I kept forgetting, and raising my blank wrist and just seeing my tan line instead. I wondered if running in the sun for an hour would erase said line. Not that I love it so, but it would seem kind of weird, not to be able to track the passage of time or even have evidence that I usually do.

As I ran, as far as know, Eleanor was being euthanized. My parents realized that this was necessary after the vets discovered that her jaw was so fractured that, even with surgery, it might not be possible for her to ever eat unassisted. It was necessary to be merciful, not to drag out her time when there could be no joy in, much as she will be missed.

Some of you have heard this before from me, but I find it comforting: my friend Y. once said that he could always say goodbye to his pets when it came their time because those were relationships without words. Nothing said or unsaid needs to be regretted; unconditional love is timelessly, wordlessly, perfectly understood.

Perhaps that's why I could have a good run, a perfectly charming literary lunch with Kerry and a reasonable shift at work, all with just a small spark of sadness in the back of my mind. Eleanor will leave a gap in the future, surely, but the important time was the time while she was here.

But I'm still sad.

RR