Beltane Wedding Moon
Vega’s ashes have come in. The sadness returned with this news. Thinking last night about death. Death is long, permanent, invisible, dark. Life is short, transient, all too visible, filled with light. Life is the flutter of one dragonfly wing, snow slipping from a pine branch, a meteor. Death is ordinary; life is extraordinary.
(Vega, on the left, still at the breeders. Her father, Guinness, is the gray wolfhound. All of her sibs.)
Grief, Proust said, gives power to the mind. Not sure what he meant by that, but there is a definite sense of emotional and intellectual heavy lifting around a death. We have no choice but to make sense of a world now less populated. One we loved has slipped beyond the reach of our senses.
How will we live now? That question confronts every individual, every family, every dog pack visited by death. Here we see Rigel’s tail beginning to thump more often and more loudly. We see her taking over the couch. Her bark is deeper, more considered.
Vega does, as Seoah said, live on in our hearts. Funny, opinionated, dominant without ruling, loving, sweet. That was Vega. From the very beginning. Still.
