Little mercies.
loss, lists, and how we keep going
We had to say goodbye to my dear Prudence on September 12. She was not some average bones. She was the best dog in the world and her absence has left a huge hole in my house, heart, and arms.
What I’ve experienced in recent weeks has been true grief, loss to my core, and a new void no other pet or time will fill. Prudence was my most consistent companion in life, a through line to my story.
If losing her wasn’t enough, my world outside of this particular loss has been heavy and disorienting as well. She didn’t mean to leave us in a bad time - she was far too loyal for that - but we all know there wasn’t going to be a good time to say goodbye. But that's what happened. I lost one of my best friends in a real time of need and upheaval.
These vague struggles are narratives that I’ll never write about in this newsletter. But there are words I can and want to share. Here’s what I wrote on social media a few days after she passed. I’m resharing it here in case you missed it or would like to reread, and because I know I will. When social media is gone or useless, I will have these words and this time-frozen letter to her that lives somewhere permanent, alongside this letter I wrote years ago to articulate the feeling of being “on borrowed time” with her.
Goodbye, my dear Prudence. 💔
Words can't sum up this love, this life, this loss. But no words began to feel worse, and it kept you from bursting forth into the brand new day without your favorite thing in the whole world: people. Oh, how you LOVED people.
From the moment we met you at six weeks old in the shelter, you made us yours. I was only 21—we grew up together in the last 12+ years. You said yes to every adventure, move, trip, cuddle, and walk. We knew you couldn't live forever, but we're devastated you had to go the way you did. It's not fair, and neither is waking up every day without you, cooking dinner without you, making plans without you. You were spoiled, included, sacrificed for, and loved like our first child. I'm sorry the last few years were so rough on your body. You were so brave and resilient. But vibrant, happy, wiggly, snuggly, athletic, and whole is how I want to remember you. Up for anything, like two months living out of our car and climbing, or moving to Portugal by the sea where you taught us you were happier off leash, never wandering too far from home. You got me through deployments, when I lost homes and familiar, and when life was a struggle. You taught me unconditional love and now you're going to teach me to let go. I'm so, so sad without you here. I've not had to live long as an adult in a world where you didn't exist and now that's our reality. One day at a time, we're picking up the pieces and figuring out how to be a family without you but it's not the same. We'll never be the same or forget how right life felt with you, how wrong it feels without you here now and how I keep thinking and doing with you in mind. Like how yesterday it rained and you hate the rain so I dread it with you because I'm still your mom.
So dear Prudence, the sun is up, the sky is blue, it's beautiful and so are you. Thank you for picking us. Thank you for the merciful ways you told us you were ready to go. Thank you for letting us walk you home together. Thank you for sharing your beautiful, long life with us. I'll never be the same having known your pure love, devotion, big heart, quirks, gentleness, companionship, and your eternal sunshine. You're so free now. Won't you come out to play?
In the weeks since I wrote this, life has been a moment-to-moment story. Sometimes I’m okay. Sometimes I’m really not. Sometimes I laugh really hard. Sometimes I sob and can’t breathe. All of the time: I miss her so, so much.
But also in the weeks since I wrote this, I’ve been keeping a list. I opened a new Evernote sheet on my phone. I titled the list “Little Mercies” and I started writing down the small moments of relief, joy, or mercy in the days since we realized she was making this transition. It's like a gratitude list, but I don't feel like “grateful” is the right word. It's not toxic positivity that ignores reality in favor of keeping comfortable. These are not what I'm grateful for. They're what's sparing me right now. They're saving my life. They're the real nuts and bolts of just keep going.
There are over 30 items on the list - little things to look back at to remember that I wasn’t alone, that people were showing up, and that her life mattered to people because it mattered to me. Therefore, her loss matters to people because she matters to me.
Here are a few things on it:
Chewy refunds for 3 months worth of food and meds we get to donate
Dr. McConnell at Evolution
Nourishing food with M
W + M getting to say goodbye
Being together for those two days
R + M + N dropping by with a care package
Her really telling us she was ready
Sister using points on my flights to MO
Mom changing everything around to come visit
Old episodes of Gilmore Girls
Celebrating at a 2-year old birthday party
Coheed and Cambria live and the drive back
Transatlanticism live from Death Cab
1 year anniversary call with my Italy people
Friends who spend the night because they know they're always welcome here
Neighbors rushing to help other neighbors in crisis
Fall approaching, aspens turning
Putting away the A/C units and bringing out the electric fireplace and scented candles
Half Priced Books and pedicures with Mom
Eating comfort food and watching The Holiday with Sister
Putting together my nephew's bassinet
Reading a memoir that mirrors parts of my life (and there's a Rhodesian Ridgeback in it)
Friend who makes ceremonies and land art for our collective sanctuary
Sitting around the fire on a chilly fall night with people who've become old friends
K’s yes to my asking for help
S cooking with sumac from Jordan
Naming the grief has been important for me in the process. Naming the glimmers and moments of mercy has been healing too. It’s been a spiritual practice that’s holding me together. It’s how I’m making it through some of the hardest days while life feels like an uncontrolled unraveling. To remember how love shelters us.
Even when you know the day of loss is coming, you’re never ready to actually have to say goodbye. And even when it’s come and gone, it's hard to know if you're ready to write about it except that you have to say it and keep pointing to goodness, beauty, and truth.
There’s no other way forward for me. Yes, I could tell the whole story of her life and the end and how brave she was and what courage and trust it took to walk her to the edge, but I can't. I won't. These are sacred details my family gets to keep safe now. But if there's something to offer you from this experience, it's that I can show you how I keep going, I think. How I lost a third of my family and I'm still breathing. How big life is happening simultaneous to this singularly devastating loss and I'm still looking for home and love and integrity somehow. It's the audacity of faith. It's the radical nature of hope.
That’s what this newsletter has always been about. It’s looking at the hardest parts of the story and finding the light. It’s examining the darkness in the world and making the art. It’s asking how you and I can show up again and again in the world where we’re always just looking for home, for little mercies, for each other.
I’m grateful you’re still here, despite my inconsistencies (and this isn’t where I promise to write more here — not this season.) I know that you value my words and that matters to me, however often we get to interact.
I do have one simple request: would you please hug your fur babies, look around your life for little mercies, or just tell someone you love them today? We can make this hard, hard world a little brighter for just a second.
I know Prudence would be the first to agree.
Love,
