My Dog is Chelsea

I ask myself every year what difference this day makes. It is essentially the same as any other: I work, I eat food, I laugh, I sleep. I did the same thing yesterday, and I will do it again tomorrow. Am I supposed to feel sadder on this day than any other? Because the Earth is in the same spot it was in 16 years ago?

I took a walk tonight to return an overdue DVD rental. It’s about three and a half blocks to the movie store, a walk that normally takes just a few minutes, but a minor ankle injury from this weekend’s frisbee tournament has left me limping. For the first time since Chelsea was alive, I walked slowly down the street.

The difference between a brisk walk and a hobbling amble is in the details. It was cold out there tonight, that much was obvious. The sky was clear; the yellow leaves lining the sidewalk were crisp underfoot. Glowing paper bags lined neighbors’ porches; uncarved pumpkins guarded doorways. The yellow glow from the streetlights meekly shone down on the few pedestrians bothering to fight the chill in the air, their faces barely visible under the shadows of the street trees.

You think more when you walk slowly. I thought about tonight and its connection to the night my father died. I recalled all of the images that come with that memory: the grinning jack-o-lanterns, the slimy pumpkin seeds, the soggy newspaper, the toy motorcycle I was riding when the Hospice nurse called my mother upstairs, his lifeless hand as I reached out to touch it one last time, the slumped body bag, the vomit I left in the toilet, the crowd of strangers, and my aunt and uncle emerging from that cold night, not unlike this one, to comfort us.

And I realized that there is no difference between this night and that one, just like there is really no difference between any night and this one—except on this one I force myself to think about those stomach-turning events that happened tonight, that night, all those years ago, and it does make me sadder than usual.