I’m forty-two, which is two hundred and ninety-four.
We had twelve brilliant years together. That’s eighty-four in dog years.
That’s a lifetime, even if dog years pass too quickly.
A heart is judged not by how much you love, but by how much you are loved by others.
There will be two drugs. The second will stop her heart.
Good night, my sweet puppy.
Good night, Monkey.
Good night, Silly Goose.
Good night, Tiny Mouse.
Good night, Bean.
Good night, Lily.
You were fiercely loved.
Three Hearts
August
I’m already parked when it occurs to me I’m not sure which of the two Starbucks is the one we agreed upon. It’s now two minutes until three, the time we planned to meet, and so I should probably hope for the closer of the two, even though the farther would be a much better choice for a first date. At least there we could sit outside. How can there be two Starbucks in one location? One is inside a Barnes & Noble, that’s how. The Starbucks of books. I text him quickly and start in the direction of both Starbucks, and when he texts back he asks How do you feel about frozen yogurt instead? I write back Sure, and head to the farther Starbucks, since it’s closer to the frozen yogurt place, even though now it’s probably more complicated than ever, the plan about where to meet.
It’s been a month to the day since Lily died.
Until today I have been doing okay. I took my mother up on her offer to come home. I timed my visit with Meredith’s, and we all spent a few lazy days enjoying the Maine summer, and no one pressured me to talk or to laugh if I didn’t want to. Upon my return, I threw myself into other things—work, exercise (a lot of running—running to? running from?), catching up with friends. Dating, sort of. There have been a few dates; all firsts, no seconds—no real interest on my part. (Afternoon dates, all of them, so that it’s not a big deal when I don’t drink.) All of this is not to say there weren’t a few dark days, even lonelier nights, and a few horrifying nightmares, but I powered through somehow, kept marching forward. It seemed critical, rejoining the world—I have been away too long.
I’d been dreading today, the one-month anniversary of Lily’s passing, but I hadn’t expected it to land with such a numbing clonk. I probably only made this date knowing I would need the distraction. Not that I didn’t find his pictures attractive. Not that I didn’t enjoy our email exchange. I think I’m attracted to his name: Byron. A poet’s name. Romantic. I’ve read a lot of Lord Byron of late; he had a Newfoundland, named Boatswain, who was the inspiration for one of his more famous works, “Epitaph to a Dog.” Near this Spot are deposited the Remains of one who possessed Beauty without Vanity, Strength without Insolence, Courage without Ferocity, and all the virtues of Man without his Vices. Boatswain, it seems, was a lot like Lily.
It felt like some sort of sign, my date’s name being Byron. He would understand me and the depths of my pain. He would speak in poetry, real emotional verse, and not pablum and platitudes. But I don’t really know what I’m doing as I march toward the farther of the two Starbucks, the one closer to the yogurt place.
Living, I suppose. Breathing. It seems I’m almost ready to do those things again. Not just go through the motions, but attempt them for real.
I weave through L.A.’s famous Farmers Market (which is really more of an outdoor food court) and now I’m a few minutes late and the place is packed and there’s still the uncertainty about where to meet when I look down and realize I’m wearing yellow pants. Yellow pants. Really? Sometimes I don’t know what I’m thinking. They’re rolled at the cuff and paired with a navy polo and it looks like maybe I just valeted my yacht and I’m certain to come off as an asshole. I think about canceling, or at least delaying so I can go home and change, but the effort that would require is unappealing and this date is mostly for distraction, and when I round the last stall (someone selling enormous eggplants, more round than oblong), I see him casually leaning against a wall and something inside my body says there you are.
There you are.
I don’t understand them, these words, because they seem too deep and too soulful to attach to the Farmers Market, this Starbucks or that, a frozen yogurt place, or confusion over where to meet a stranger. They’re straining to define a feeling of stunning comfort that drips over me, as if a water balloon burst over my head on the hottest of summer days. My knees don’t buckle, my heart doesn’t skip, but I’m awash in the warmth of a Valium-like hug. Except I haven’t taken a Valium. Not since the night of Lily’s death. Yet here is this warm hug that makes me feel safe with this person, this Byron the maybe-poet, and I want it to stop. This—whatever this feeling is—can’t be a real feeling, this can’t be a tangible connection. This is just a man leaning against a stall that sells giant eggplants. But I no longer have time to worry about what this feeling is, whether I should or shouldn’t be here, or should or shouldn’t be wearing yellow pants, because there are only maybe three perfect seconds where I see him and he has yet to spot me. Three perfect seconds to enjoy the calm that has so long eluded me.
There you are.
And then he casually lifts his head and turns
