A few mornings ago, I saw two people walking a black lab. One had a jar of peanut butter tucked under her arm, her other hand holding a spatula that the dog was joyously licking as they walked. They weren’t moving quickly, but they weren’t going slowly, either. My gut told me it might be the dog’s final walk, but my heart hoped maybe it was just a special day—a birthday or Gotcha Day. I’ll probably never know whether that peanut-butter-loving baby has left this world, but I send my love either way.

For as long as I can remember, I see death everywhere. When I took this photo, for example, my heart felt so full that I immediately thought of how much it will hurt to say goodbye to Benny someday—hopefully many years from now. And losing Benny will mean letting go of the final living creature of the family Ramón and I built. In moments like these, my chest grows heavy, knowing that love and loss are so inextricably intertwined.  

Some days I wish I didn’t feel things so intensely—that my mind didn’t automatically jump to loss when I felt an overwhelming sense of love. But other days I’m grateful to be acutely aware that nothing in life is permanent. Awareness of mortality has the power to enrich our lives in remarkable ways.

I’m currently reading a book called The Wild Edge of Sorrow by Frances Weller. It includes this poem, which I plan to hold close.

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For Those Who Have Died
Eleh Ezkerah—These We Remember

‘Tis a fearful thing
To love
What death can touch.
To love, to hope, to dream,
And oh, to lose.

A thing for fools, this,
Love,
But a holy thing,
To love what death can touch.

For your life has lived in me;
Your laugh once lifted me;
Your word was a gift to me.

To remember this brings painful joy.

‘Tis a human thing, love,
A holy thing,
To love
What death can touch.

—Unknown, but maybe Judah Halevi or Emanuel of Rome

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Monday, July 20, will mark six years since Ramón’s death. And I will never be able to comprehend that fact.

What a blessing it was to have loved Ramón—and what painful joy I feel to have loved what death can touch.